


The Liberation of Molly Hooper

by falsepremise



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Background Slash, Episode: The Abominable Bride, F/F, Falling In Love, Feminist Themes, Femslash, First Time, Historical, Janine is in the story eventually, Johnlock - Freeform, Johnlock happens in the background eventually, M/M, Molly's POV, Personal Growth, Science Kink, Sherlock is in the story eventually, Smut, Victorian, background Johnlock, bisexual!molly, there is a moment where it looks like it is going Sherlolly but trust me it won't
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-21
Updated: 2018-02-08
Packaged: 2018-06-09 19:02:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 16
Words: 26,810
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6919327
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/falsepremise/pseuds/falsepremise
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Molly's story, set within The Abominable Bride universe- a story of personal growth, self-discovery, love and sex. Sherlock and John don't appear for a number of chapters but they will appear eventually and there will be background Johnlock. Femslash.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

London late 1880s

It was liberating, the first time she donned the costume and became Mr Hooper. A pair of trousers, a wig and a fake moustache transformed her from invisible into powerful. And how glorious it was to be treated so differently! Her opinions were taken seriously. Her intelligence was recognised and appreciated. As Mr Hooper she could move through the world and act as she wished. She was respected.

She found herself, as Mr Hooper, taking on a different personality to Miss Hooper’s quiet demeanour. She was treated differently and she acted differently in return. She discovered that she could be assertive. Not just assertive, but commanding. As Mr Hooper, she was allowed to take up more space in the world, and she found she grew in personality to fill it. She walked differently, talked differently, and expected more. Molly found herself enjoying the relaxed comradeship of other young men. It was strange at first, but it didn’t take long for her to find male friendship easy and comfortable. There were days when she lost herself in her role. Days when she almost became him, when she almost lost herself in Mr Hooper. 

Molly even found herself looking at women differently. Miss Hooper missed the companionship of other women. But Mr Hooper, he admired them. She frequently caught herself taking a second, discreet glance at a lady’s pretty face, or the sway of her hips, or her ample bosom. At first Molly found it amusing to catch herself at those moments. She’d almost laugh out loud to herself- to think a costume could be so powerful! But gradually, she began to wonder, was it the costume? Surely the assertive, commanding personality that she had adopted as Mr Hooper had been within her all along, just brought into being by the fact that it was now possible? So what could it mean that Mr Hooper’s gaze had a tendency to linger on a pretty girl? Was it simply the only way she could express her loneliness, her isolation from other women? That must be it, she convinced herself. After all, in the quiet evenings she missed the companionship of other women desperately. If only she could be everything that was within herself. 

But the day would come when she could no longer convince herself of this simple explanation…

The day began as any other. Molly donned the Mr Hooper costume: a smart suit, a wig and a fake moustache, and as Mr Hooper, attended her medical training at St Bart’s. She strode confidently into the class, nodding to her friends as she did so. Today’s lecture and demonstration was to be given by a guest. The guest stood at the front of the room, waiting to be introduced by one of the senior St Bart’s doctors. The guest was middle-aged with a fair sprinkling of grey hairs on his head. But he was still a handsome man.  
The guest lectures were generally highly practical. After all, guest doctors were invited to give them a glimpse into medicine as it was practised in the community. Molly knew that most of her fellow students found the guest lectures more exciting than their usual classes but she found them a little dull. 

What really excited Molly was the lectures on anatomy and pathology. She was less interested in medicine as it was currently practised in the community and more interested in the progress medicine would make in the future. For Molly, a cadaver lying cold and motionless in the centre of the classroom was a sure sign of a gripping lecture. Molly was convinced that with thorough and scientific dissection of the human body, medicine could advance in leaps and bounds, bringing as it did a concrete and physical understanding of pathology. But today, there was no cadaver. Instead, there was a living, breathing young woman, sitting patiently to the side of the classroom. Molly glanced at her. She was clearly a little nervous. But that was to be expected. 

Molly’s expert eyes took her in: blonde and pretty with delicate features and buxom figure. Beautiful, certainly, but other than that she seemed quite ordinary. Certainly no pathology was apparent from such a casual examination from across a crowded room. Yet, clearly, she was here to be an example patient. So Molly began to ponder a diagnosis, working with the information she had: what form of pathology is common in young women, not clearly visible from a casual examination and more commonly treated in the community than St Barts?

Dr Stamford stepped forward and cleared his throat, “Our class today shall be taken by Doctor Johnson. Doctor Johnson maintains a private practice in London and is a leading expert in his current topic – hysteria. I give you, Doctor Johnson.”

“Thank-you,” the middle-aged handsome man, whom Molly now knew as Dr Johnson, stepped forward, “It is a delight to be here today.”

Dr Johnson cleared his throat and launched into his lecture, “Hysteria is a common condition amongst the fairer sex, a symptom of their fragile and weaker nature. It is associated with a variety of symptoms. Hysterics may report feelings of nervousness, shortness of breath, insomnia or feeling faint. They are often fanciful and overly emotional. A sensation of heaviness in the abdomen is common. You may observe blushing, muscle spasms, excessive crying and nervous laughter. In married women, the husband will often report that his wife performs her martial obligations with an increased enthusiasm or, the opposite, with complete reluctance. Most seriously, hysterics may flout the usual social conventions and delicacies, straying from the proper realm of feminine behaviour. It is thus a dangerous condition and the symptoms must be adequately managed.”

Molly cleared her throat nervously, suddenly aware of her fake moustache. Dr Johnson continued, “You may have heard of the more fanciful theories of Charcot who believes hysteria to be a disease of the nerves, properly cured by hypnosis. I’ve been treating hysterics for all of my professional life and I am confident it is a disease, not of the nerves, but of the womb. The best cure is massage to release the tension within the womb through a paroxysm. I should like to demonstrate the technique to you today. It is my hope that amongst this class today, there may be some students interested in pursuing the treatment of hysteria further. I would invite volunteers to receive extra training in the treatment of hysteria through massage at my clinic.”

“That’s a very generous offer,” Dr Stamford piped up, “I’d encourage you all to give it due consideration.”

Molly quashed the temptation to snort cynically. It all sounded dreadfully dull to her. Tension in the womb? Yawn. Where was the pathology? The flesh twisted and malformed? The intruding lumps? The weeping wounds? Molly performed as many dissections as she could and had examined a number of uteri. A condition as common as hysteria was supposed to be, should have been identified anatomically in dissections.

“Thank-you” Dr Johnson smiled at Stamford, “I hope some of your students do. Now, I’ll ask Miss Smith to lye upon our examination table.”

The beautiful young woman blushed at being referred to and obediently scurried to the middle of the room, where Stamford helped her onto the table. 

“Miss Smith is a typical hysteric. A pressure, a tension builds within her womb that regularly requires relieving or else she is beset by insomnia, nervousness and irritability. 

Fortunately, it is readily relieved by the massage that I provide. For Miss Smith’s discretion I will provide the massage with screens. I routinely use screens within my own clinic to preserve propriety.”

Stamford placed hospital screens, blocking the bottom half of Miss Smith’s body from the view of the room, including from Dr Johnson.

“But,” Dr Johnson continued, “I shall describe my technique and, as I said, the interested can try it out for themselves at my clinic and receive the benefit of my advice in perfecting your technique. With practice you will know exactly where and how to massage by touch alone.”

Dr Johnson’s hand slipped under the screen so that his arm disappeared up to his elbow and Miss Smith took in a sharp intake of breath, “You need to find the birth canal, ah there it is…” 

Miss Smith’s breath began to shorten and a flush swept over her face. Suddenly, Molly was interested.

“The best technique is to insert two fingers into the birth canal, while allowing the palm of your hand to rest upon the lady’s mound. And very delicately massage the area, noting the lady’s reaction.”

Miss Smith blushed deeper and groaned. Molly had never seen anything like Miss Smith’s current state. She found herself transfixed.

“You’ll note Miss Smith’s quick reaction” Dr Johnson continued, “Miss Smith is quick responder to the treatment, thus why I chose her for the demonstration today. However, some ladies do require more persistence.” 

All the while Johnson continued massaging Miss Smith behind the screen and Miss Smith’s breath continued to quicken, with occasional bursts of moans and groans. 

Molly found herself utterly captivated by how beautiful Miss Smith was. She felt her own breath quicken and forced herself to slow her breathing to a normal rate. She glanced around at her classmates to see if anyone else was affected as she was but they all seemed to wear the same curious expression that students usually wear during a good lecture. She looked back to Miss Smith: buxom and beautiful, she wore a deep flush on her cheeks and breathed so fast and furious. She was angelic and wanton at the same time. 

Molly felt her breath speeding up again, her heart begin to pound, and her own face begin to flush. She looked away and deliberately forced her breathing to slow. 

“Dr Johnson?” piped up Anderson, a fellow student, “how much persistence? How long does it usually take to induce paroxysm?”

“It varies greatly,” Johnson continued, “Miss Smith here typically experiences paroxysm in a matter of minutes, but some ladies I treat can take well over an hour. This is a line of work that requires some patience.”

As if in answer Miss Smith groaned loudly and began to thrash on the table, “Ah,” said Johnson, “I think she’s experiencing paroxysm now.”

Molly, barely calmed felt her attention pulled back to Miss Smith. She gazed wide-eyed at her wanton thrashing, a deep heat pooling down low in her own body and with it a longing to be the one massaging Miss Smith, to be the one causing this beautiful reaction. 

Finally, Miss Smith calmed and Johnson withdrew his hand. Stamford stepped forward and clapped, “Thank-you, Dr Johnson, for a most captivating lecture. Any student who is interested in learning more can see myself to arrange a visit to Dr Johnson’s clinic. Well done.”

Molly exited the class quickly, in a state of shock. She still felt out of sorts: hot, nervous, with a deep heat, a tension pooling down low. Good God, was it catching? Was she hysterical? 

Molly rushed back to her flat as quickly as she could. Once home, she stripped off her costume, long hair again framing her face and splashed herself with cold water. Desperately she tried to obliterate the lecture from her mind but she kept seeing Miss Smith’s face, wanton and full of… full of what? She didn’t know but God, how she’d love to make Miss Smith feel that way. Again the tension, so exquisitely painful, aching almost… 

Oh God, I’m hysterical… I’ve lost my mind… What will I do? 

Massage, massage is the cure. I’ll release the tension and I’ll be able to think clearly again. The moment she thought it, she knew it was what the tension was calling her to do. She lay back on her bed and carefully found her own birth canal, placing her palm over her mound exactly as Johnson had said. As she did, she kept thinking of Miss Smith- her blushing, the quickening of her breath, her groans. She imagined massaging Miss Smith herself, creating that reaction in Miss Smith with her very hands. It felt good. So, so good. Until, there, there- the very pinnacle. And the tension released. She’d experienced a paroxysm.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've tried to be as historically accurate as possible throughout this story. Yes, hysteria really was treated with handjobs. Incredible, huh?


	2. Chapter 2

Molly lay awake, her mind anxiously churning over the events of the day. It seemed she had caught hysteria. Not just caught but caught and self-treated. Would the tension return again? If Dr Johnson was to be believed hysteria was a disease of the womb, a malady rooted in the weaker nature of women. Molly knew nonsense when she heard it. Her life proved that women were capable of everything that men were, they just lacked the opportunities to fulfil their potential. 

Perhaps the alternative theory of Charcot was correct? Molly grimaced. She did not care for the ‘mad doctors’ and their grandiose theories about the human mind. If medicine was to progress, it should be grounded in the scientific investigation of pathology through carefully conducted autopsies. 

Well, that was it then, wasn’t it? If the current theories were nonsensical, Molly would just have to investigate this phenomena herself. A calm determination swept Molly’s anxiety away. 

And the first step, as it should always be when investigating medical phenomena, would be a dissection…

The next day, Molly knocked and then strode confidently into Dr Stamford’s office. Stamford looked up and smiled, “Ah, Hooper, what can I do for you today?”

“I was intrigued by Dr Johnson’s lecture,” Molly began.

“Ah, yes it was exciting, wasn’t it?” Stamford cut in, “Though, I must say I’m surprised to see you take an interest in the more routine community medicine but I’d be delighted to give you his clinic address, along with a letter of recommendation.” 

“Thank-you. I will need to visit his clinic, yes. But first, I’ll need access to several corpses for dissection. All young to middle-aged females. And I’ll need to know whether each had a history of hysteria. Some with such a history and some without.”

Stamford gave a barking laugh, “Well that does sound more like you, Hooper. What, exactly, do you have planned?”

“I wish to investigate the phenomena of hysteria,” Molly answered with a determined grin, “There are two existing theories- that it is a disease of the womb and that it is a disease of the nerves. Either way, some distinguishable pathology should be present on examination.”

“Physical pathology has never been documented in hysteria,” Stamford frowned, “Though, to be honest, I don’t know how thoroughly it has been investigated.”

“Precisely.” Molly confidently answered, “In a few days we’ll know of at least one thorough investigation.”

“And if you find no visible pathology?” Stamford asked.

“As I said, I’ll also need to visit Dr Johnson’s clinic and investigate this phenomenon by other means. I’m determined to investigate thoroughly and find my own conclusions.” 

Stamford nodded, “An intriguing project, Hooper. At the very least it will stretch your abilities as a medical scientist. You have my support. You may perform the dissections that you require. A history of hysteria may not be fully noted within the St Barts records so you also have my permission to contact the listed community physicians to confirm. I’ll provide a letter of recommendation to Dr Johnson explaining that you wish to investigate the phenomena fully, as you say, not simply obtain additional training in his massage techniques. I believe Dr Johnson will be flattered by your interest. My only condition is that at the end of your investigation, you must report your findings to me.”

“Certainly,” Molly smiled. “I’d be glad to”

“I’ll communicate with Dr Johnson directly,” Stamford continued smiling, “I’m sure you are keen to begin the dissections.”

“Thank-you, Stamford. I appreciate your support.” Molly answered.

Stamford nodded and waved her out of his office. 

Several days later, an exhausted Molly finished the final dissection. As she carefully washed down both her equipment and herself with carbolic acid, she reflected on her results. She had managed to obtain six corpses: three of women with a significant history of hysteria and three who had never been treated for hysteria. She had performed thorough and careful autopsies on each, focusing on the uteri and nerves. 

She had found no physical explanation for the hysterical symptoms. Of the six women, one had a uterus that faced backwards. She was in the hysteria group. But that was a normal variation, and anyway, the other two hysterics had typical uteri. The most obvious pathology found was a large, bulbous growth of fibrinous tissue, but it was found within a woman without a history of hysteria. Again, Molly knew that such growths had been noted before in women without any particular symptoms upon death. She also knew from the medical records that that particular woman had successfully birthed a number of children, the most recent only six months ago. So clearly she had a functioning uterus upon death. The autopsies had turned up even less when it came to the nerves. All the women had completely normal and healthy nervous tissue. Molly was forced to conclude that hysterical symptoms occurred in the complete absence of physical pathology. So then, what caused them? 

Having completed her clean-up, Molly donned her coat and bowler hat, stepping out into the London streets. The air was brisk and the street lights, an advantage of living in London, lit her way through the darkening streets. She paused for a moment and fingered a telegram in her coat pocket. The telegram was from Dr Johnson, confirming that he had been in communication with Stamford, and would be delighted to receive Mr Hooper at his earliest convenience. Molly began the short walk to her flat, the heels of her shoes clicking against the paving road. She would visit Dr Johnson at his clinic tomorrow morning. 

The challenge being, she already knew that Dr Johnson himself did not have the answers she was seeking. She would need to glean new insights of her own, without seeming to disrespect Dr Johnson’s expertise. She mulled this over. Speaking to the hysterics directly would be the best course of action. She could collect rich data without making Dr Johnson or his patients doubt that Mr Hooper respected Johnson’s theories and methods. Of course, Dr Johnson will expect Mr Hooper to desire further training in his massage technique. That, in itself, could also be a useful experience. An image of Miss Smith, blushing and groaning, with Molly herself performing the massage flashed into Molly’s mind and she felt a stirring, a pooling down low. 

That was the other challenge, though, wasn’t it? How was she going to protect herself against hysteria? She couldn’t. Not until she understood it better at least. Well, she’d just have to bare the symptoms stoically, treating herself in the evenings when necessary. Understanding was the first step towards cure.


	3. Chapter 3

“Mr Hooper? From St Barts?” Dr Johnson repeated, smiling, “A delight. Stamford said you have taken a strong interest in hysteria. Well, come in, come in.”

Molly removed her coat and bowler hat as she walked into the clinic, smiling in return, “That’s right, Dr Johnson. I found your lecture quite remarkable. I’m something of a pathologist myself. I’m very interested in the advancement of medicine through careful scientific investigation and hysteria struck me as such a fascinating phenomenon. I’ve set myself the task of investigating it fully.”

“Wonderful,” beamed Dr Johnson with obvious enthusiasm, “Hat and coat, just here, Mr Hooper and come on through to my office.”

Molly placed her coat and hat in the cupboard and followed Mr Johnson to a small office with desk and chairs. 

“Please, sit down,” Mr Johnson continued, “Well naturally, Mr Hooper, I’d be delighted to train you fully in my massage technique. You’ve already observed it, of course, so the best way forward would be for you to attempt the technique yourself under my supervision. A number of my usual patients would be quite amenable to this, I assure you.”

Molly smiled, ignoring her heart fluttering in anticipation, “That would be incredibly helpful, Dr Johnson. You are very generous.”

Dr Johnson waved this away, “What I’m unsure of is what else you may require from me to perform a thorough investigation of the phenomenon as you say?”

Molly nodded, “I’d like to interview some of your patients, to collect thorough case histories for examination.”

“Oh, that won’t be a problem at all. Again, many of my regular patients would be quite amenable to this. Some of the ladies will be quite excited by the attention in fact. Especially as they’ll be receiving attention from such a handsome young doctor.”

Molly flushed slightly and shifted, uncomfortable, “From a trainee doctor. And thank-you the data will be most useful.”

“Not at all,” Dr Johnson answered seemingly oblivious to Mr Hooper’s embarrassment, “I have several of my regular patients today. Why don’t we set you up here for the morning, in my office? As the ladies complete their appointment with me, I’ll send them through to you. That’ll give you time to collect your data and digest the information. This afternoon, I’ll train you in my massage technique. Does that suit?”

“Perfectly,” Molly answered, “Very generous of you, Dr Johnson.”

The first woman that Molly interviewed, Mrs Ashford, was the young wife of a barrister with two children at home. Mrs Ashford seemed quite nervous about speaking to Mr Hooper at first, but Molly began with less invasive questions around children and marriage and she soon warmed up. Mrs Ashford’s main symptom was what she described as ‘an overwhelming sensation’ and a dampness in her underwear. If this wasn’t relieved, then her normally pleasant disposition became quite disturbed. When asked whether she had ever experienced a paroxysm outside of Dr Johnson’s care, Mrs Ashford admitted that she occasionally experienced paroxysm while performing her marital duties, but that this unfortunately did not occur regularly enough to be a sufficient treatment. Mrs Ashford departed her interview amicably and Molly moved onto the next hysterical patient.

Molly interviewed patient after patient, and the data that she collected formed a clear picture. The women described their symptoms similar to how Dr Johnson had described them. They spoke of pressure, tension, a pooling and a dampness. Some women mentioned fainting, sleeplessness, excitability and irritability. All described paroxysm as a temporary relief, a release of a building tension. When prompted, some of the women recalled experiencing a paroxysm outside of Dr Johnson’s clinic. Several mentioned, like Mrs Ashford, occasionally experiencing paroxysm while performing marital duties. One young woman recounted experiencing paroxysm while horseback riding. Another reported that she had once spontaneously experienced a paroxysm while dreaming. And one of the women reported that she had successfully induced paroxysm herself by rubbing against a pillow. 

Molly was even more convinced that this phenomenon was not pathological. Woman after woman had proof positive of functional uteri. That is, these hysterical women had children. They lived normal and healthy lives. They simply had a need, a desire for regular paroxysm. But why?

Dr Johnson stepped into the room, “How has it been?”

“Fascinating,” Molly answered, “I have a tremendous amount of useful data to analyse.”

“Very good,” Dr Johnson nodded, “My last patient for the day is one you know already, Miss Smith. She would be an ideal patient for you to learn on.”

Molly gulped, her heart fluttering as she recalled Miss Smith’s wanton beauty, “Certainly. Thank-you.”

Dr Johnson motioned for Mr Hooper step out of the office and into the examination room next door, “She’s already agreed.”

Molly stepped inside nervously to find Miss Smith lying down on an examination table. 

“This is Mr Hooper,” Dr Johnson said, “He will be performing your massage today as we discussed.”

Miss Smith smiled and flushed beautifully, “Yes, of course. Thank-you, Mr Hooper.”

Molly smiled nervously, “Thank-you.”

“Well, let’s get to it,” Dr Johnson, “I trust you’ve removed your undergarments, Miss Smith?”

“Yes, Dr Johnson,” Miss Smith answered.

“Let’s place the screens around you then, my dear,” Dr Johnson replied while carefully placing the screen so that the lower half of Miss Smith’s body was obscured, “Now Miss Smith, this is Mr Hooper’s first time performing the massage so you’ll need to be a bit patient. But I’m here to instruct him so there’s no need to worry.”  
Miss Smith smiled again her eyes darting towards the dapper gentleman Mr Hooper, “Of course.”

Molly could feel a tension pooling down below already. This was going to be difficult. But she would just have to bare her own symptoms stoically and focus on mastering the skill. 

“Very good,” said Dr Johnson turning to Molly, “Now Mr Hooper, place your hand on mine and I’ll guide you at first.”

Molly did as Johnson instructed and he guided her in, “There’s her birth canal. Do you feel it?”

“Yes,” Molly gulped as her fingers found a deep wetness. 

“Excellent,” Johnson continued, “So, the palm of your hand should rest on her mound, that’s it, and now gently apply the massage. Very good.”

Dr Johnson removed his hand leaving Molly carefully applying pressure to Miss Smith’s mound with the palm her hand.

Miss Smith was enjoying it thoroughly. “Watch Miss Smith’s reaction, that’ll tell you if she’s getting closer to paroxysm or not.”

Molly gazed at Miss Smith, watching taking in her every groan, her every flush, her every shudder. God, this was good. Molly could feel her own body throb in response. But she pulled her focus from that to Miss Smith. She carefully adjusted her technique based on Miss Smith’s reaction and Miss Smith was soon reliably groaning.

“Oh, very good, Mr Hooper, you are learning quickly!” Johnson exclaimed.

Miss Smith’s breathing became faster and shallower. 

“She’s close now, Mr Hooper,” Dr Johnson noted.

And sure enough, within moments Miss Smith was loudly groaning her release. Molly chocked back a groan herself. Dear God. 

Molly pulled her hand away from Miss Smith’s warm mound and Johnson handed her a towel to wipe her hands, “Very good, Mr Hooper, very good. You are quite the natural.”

Dr Johnson removed the screens and Miss Smith sat up carefully, adjusting her clothing. She smiled sweetly, “Thank-you, Mr Hooper.”

Molly could only nod. Her mouth was dry and her own mound throbbed with need. Stoic, Molly, Stoic.

“I’ll show you out, Miss Smith,” Dr Johnson said, carefully helping Miss Smith to the door. 

Molly took the opportunity to breathe several deep steading breaths. 

Returning, Dr Johnson exclaimed, “You are a natural, Mr Hooper, quite the natural.”

Molly smiled, “Thank-you.”

“I’m afraid Miss Smith was my last patient today but if you’d like to refine your technique further or collect more data you are very welcome to return.”

“Thank-you, Dr Johnson. I may well do so. I think just now I need to return home and begin to make sense of all that I have learned today. I won’t trespass any longer upon your time. You’ve been quite generous”

“Of course, of course,” Johnson smiled amicably, again waving away any claim to generosity, “Good day to you then, Mr Hooper. I hope to see you here again soon.”

Molly gathered her coat and hat and exited Dr Johnson’s clinic at a deliberate relaxed pace. Once she had made it to the street she sped up, rushing back to her flat. Stepping inside, she didn’t even bother to remove her Mr Hooper costume. She locked the door, pulled her trousers down, lay on her bed and began to massage her mound, with her clothes, wig and moustache still on. She left Dr Johnson’s technique behind and simply followed her own instincts, repeating whatever felt good. And it felt so good. Molly discovered that focusing her attentions on a particular small bundle of flesh within her mound produced the most delightful sensations. She recalled Miss Smith’s flushed face as she had experienced paroxysm and the exquisite pleasure of knowing that she was the cause. Then she imagined Miss Smith was the one massaging her, their roles reversed. Within minutes she was loudly groaning as she experienced her paroxysm. 

The tension relieved she could think. She reviewed all that she had learnt so far while she removed her Mr Hooper costume, washed her face and got into her pajamas. She perched in her favourite chair to ponder her findings. 

Molly was convinced that the phenomenon of hysteria was not pathological. But then if it wasn’t pathology, what was it? Ah- insight dawned- what isn’t pathological, is functional. So what was the function? Hysterics are female. So it must be a function exclusive to the female of the species. According to the evolutionary theories of Lamarck or Darwin, characteristics are passed down when they have survival value or when they support the production of offspring. So did hysteria increase the chances of a female’s survival? Or was it associated with a female’s reproductive role? 

Molly turned this idea over in her mind but she couldn’t see a connection. Maybe she was thinking of it wrong. The specifics of hysteria were exclusive to females, but maybe there was a male homologue. Just as hysterical women experienced their symptoms, a building of tension within their uteri, birth canal and mound, and subsequent relief with proper stimulation of the area, so men might experience a corresponding… Oh! Molly’s brain ground to a halt. There was a male homologue, wasn’t there? She knew what hysteria was. And it wasn’t pathological at all.


	4. Chapter 4

Molly was convinced that her insight was genuine. But how could she prove it? She pondered the question carefully as she breakfasted, the warm morning light leaking through the windows. There was only one way to collect convincing data. She would have to compare hysteria directly to the male homologue, to catalogue the similarities and differences.   
But how was she going to do that? Who would allow her to observe an act so intimate? Oh, of course. There’s always someone willing, for a price. 

Molly grinned at her solution as she donned her suit, moustache and wig, becoming Mr Hooper. By the time she’d reached the brothels of Covent Garden she’d lost her grin. As clever as her solution was she didn’t relish entering such an establishment. She knew that the more respectable, higher end brothels were to be found in Covent Garden, along with theatres, dress shops, and the best seamstresses in London. It was no coincidence, women who plied one of those trades frequently dabbled in one of the others, or swapped between trades over the years, depending on where business was best. But that was the extent of Molly’s knowledge. She did have any reason to favour one particular establishment over any other. 

So she choose one at random, a friendly looking building sitting alongside a dress shop. The tricky thing would be getting through the day without getting robbed. Yet another trade that often went hand in hand with prostitution. She steeled herself and entered, finding herself in an open parlour, quite like a public bar. Several men were dozing, a couple sleeping in their seats, heads lying on the table in front of them and one passed out on the floor. 

“Welcome, sir, welcome,” a middle-aged woman with heavy makeup approached from behind the bar, “I don’t believe we’ve seen you here before. We’re at our quietest at this time of day. But I’m sure we can satisfy your desires, eh?”

“Thank-you, good lady,” Molly replied to the middle-aged woman she presumed must be the bawd, “I would like to engage your services, in a sense anyway. But I fear my request may be a little unusual. Perhaps we can talk it over?”

The bawd smiled widely, “Oh love, I’m sure it is nothing my ladies can’t accommodate.”

“Still, I’d like to talk it over,” Molly persisted.

“Of course, love,” the woman answered waving at the free booth, “Take a seat.”

Molly and the bawd both sat down. 

“A proper introduction first, I think?” the woman said, “My name is Miss Foster. I run this establishment.”

Ah, Molly thought, she is the bawd then, “Lovely to make your acquaintance, Miss Foster. I’m Mr Hooper.”

“Delighted, I’m sure,” Miss Foster replied, “Now what’s this unusual request of yours, hey?”

“Well,” Molly began, “You see I’m something of a scientist. I have a theory about male and female sexual responses. But I need to collect data, to test whether my hypothesis is correct. In particular, I need to observe the male sexual response. It is something of an experiment you see.”

Miss Foster burst into fits of laughter, “An experiment! And I thought I’d heard it all. Mr Hooper, if I may be frank, we get all sorts here. I’m well aware that some men take particular pleasure in watching. We can arrange for that without all this nonsense about science and observation.”

Molly shook her head, “No, I’m quite serious. I wish to observe. During the ah, encounter, I shall be noting my observations in my lab book.”

“You’ll what?” Miss Foster continued to giggle, “You have a prick yourself, why don’t you observe that?”

Molly shifted uncomfortably, “It wouldn’t be objective. And I can hardly take notes at the same time, can I?”

Miss Foster stopped laughing and looked Molly up and down carefully, “You are serious, aren’t you? Well, first time we’ve had such a request but that’s fine by me. I’m sure we can arrange an experiment, for a price.”

Molly nodded, “Naturally.”

“What exactly is it that you wish to observe?” Miss Foster asked.

“Ah, the male sexual response…” Molly answered, confused. 

“I gathered that, but to what?” Miss Foster replied, “What exactly do you want my lady to be doing? Should his prick be in her cunt, mouth or hands?”

“Oh I see,” Molly gulped, “Manual stimulation, I think. That will allow me to observe the full response better, I should think.”

“Indeed,” Miss Foster replied, “Well you’ll need to pay for the manual stimulation as you put it and for the privilege of viewing. I’m sure I can find a suitable male volunteer if you are paying the bill.”

“Certainly,” Molly replied, “The male should be young and healthy. Also, someone who’s sexual response is typical. And we’ll need to be in a private room to control for other variables.”

“Done, but a private room is extra.”

Molly nodded. 

Miss Foster quoted the exact price and Molly paid. 

“Thank-you, sir,” Miss Foster answered, “Step this way.” 

Molly followed Miss Foster through a hallway into a small dingy room with a bed and a chair. 

“Sit yourself down, Mr Hooper,” Miss Foster said, moving the chair to the edge of the room, “I’ll be sending Charlotte in soon with one of our regular clients. I won’t be telling him what you told me, mind. I’d advise you to keep your trap shut and let Charlotte do her job.”

“I intend to,” Molly answered.

“Very good,” Miss Foster replied as she left.

Molly removed her lab book and pencil from her coat and poised ready to take notes. She waited for what felt like a long time. Finally, the door opened and a pretty young woman led a young man into the room, both giggling. 

The young man saw Molly and he paused, “I dunno about this, Lottie.”

“Jamie, darling, it is quite right,” Charlotte replied, “He’s considering giving us his custom but he wants to be sure we can handle him. That’s all.” 

She guided Jamie to the bed, kissing him delicately on his ear, “And you, my darling, you get to enjoy my company for free today.”

Jamie groaned as Charlotte kissed down his neck.

“Now that’s not so bad, is it?” Lottie whispered, “And, Jamie my dear, I chose you to enjoy my company for free today because there’s no prick I’d rather handle. You know it’s true.”

Jamie groaned again and relaxed into his sitting position on the bed, all resistance shed. Charlotte undid John’s trousers and pulled out a fully erect member. 

Molly blushed. Although as Mr Hooper she was supposed to have one herself, it was the first time she’d seen the male organ erect. 

Charlotte took Jamie’s organ in her hands and began to expertly stroke him. Jamie groaned in response. Molly felt a familiar heat pooling between her legs. She carefully pulled her attention away from her own feelings and focussed upon observation.

She was struck by the similarity of Charlotte’s work to the Dr Johnson’s massage technique. Naturally, there were differences. But both involved applying a regular and rhythmic manual stimulation. 

She was also struck by the similarity of Jamie’s physical responses to the physical responses of Miss Smith. She carefully recorded all that she observed: flushing, groaning, shortness of breath, muscle spasms. 

Charlotte continued to expertly work Jamie’s prick with long strokes as John’s breathing became more and more laboured. Until, “Oh God, Lottie, yes! Oh!” Jamie cried out as he ejaculated, the white fluids spurting from the tip of his member.

It was the first time Molly had seen the male organ ejaculate. Aside from the actual ejaculation of seminal fluids, Jamie’s response had been incredibly similar to a paroxysm.   
Charlotte cleaned the ejaculate and helped Jamie back into his trousers, “Thank-you, Jamie my dear, I’ll see you downstairs in a moment.”

Jamie cleared his throat and left the room.

Charlotte turned to Molly, “Did you get what you wanted then?”

Molly nodded, “Yes, thank-you. That confirms my theory.”

“Sure you don’t want a more direct confirmation, my dear?” Charlotte asked flirtatiously.

Molly could feel things down low crunch at the thought of Charlotte’s expert hands on her. What would Charlotte think when she found that Mr Hooper didn’t have a prick? Would she enjoy plying her trade with a woman instead? It was an intriguing thought, but not tempting in actuality. There were many reasons to avoid Charlotte’s attentions, from the revelation of Molly’s true sex, to the morality of the act, to the risk of syphilis. “No, that won’t be necessary. Thank-you.”

Charlotte nodded, “Alright then. Good day, Mr Hooper.” 

Molly left the brothel relieved to have survived the experience without being robbed. She considered that the data she had collected fully supported her theory. She knew what hysteria was. Her investigation had come to a close. But it still felt unfinished. There was one final thing that she wanted to investigate more fully. She travelled to Dr Johnson’s Clinic.


	5. Chapter 5

“Mr Hooper!” Dr Johnson exclaimed, “An absolute delight. Come in, come in.”

Molly walked into the clinic, placing her hat and coat into the cupboard as she did so, “I wonder, Dr Johnson, if I might trespass on your time a little further.”

“I was hoping you would say that,” Dr Johnson replied, “It is no trespass at all Mr Hooper. What exactly can I do for you?”

“I’d like to perfect my technique,” Molly answered, “I wonder whether I might try applying massage to another lady?”

“Of course,” Dr Johnson waved away the request as nothing, “But first, Mr Hooper, you simply must tell me the results of your investigations. What have you concluded so far?”

“Well,” Molly paused, finding a palatable truth, “The symptoms the women described very much fit your own description. I’m confident that manual stimulation, such as that you provide, is the best way to hold the symptoms in check and provide relief.”

“Ah-huh!” Dr Johnson exclaimed, “Oh you do delight me, Mr Hooper. What a marvellous conclusion. But of course, you should practice your techniques further. In fact, my very next patient, due to arrive any moment now would be perfect: Mrs Cosgrove. You did remarkably well with Miss Smith, but Miss Smith has always been quite responsive to treatment. Mrs Cosgrove is a slow responder. It can sometimes take her quite some time to reach paroxysm. An ideal patient for you to really test your skills with.”

“That sounds perfect, Dr Johnson,” Molly replied, “I intend on experimenting with different variations upon your technique, in order to find which works best for me. Is that alright?”

“Yes, of course, Mr Hooper,” Dr Johnson answered, “I’d welcome your innovations on my technique.”

“Excellent.”

“Ah, there’s the doorbell! That’ll be Mrs Cosgrove.”

Mrs Cosgrove proved to be middle-aged and quite stern looking. She was amiable to being treated by Mr Hooper and Molly soon found herself fondling her mound behind a screen with Dr Johnson looking on. 

She felt a familiar heat pooling down below, but her own response wasn’t as great as to the wanton beauty of Miss Smith. Just as well, she could concentrate on her technique and observations.

Molly carefully located the small bundle of flesh with Mrs Cosgrove’s mound, the same small bundle that instincts had guided her to on her own body. Mrs Cosgrove’s instant, excited reaction was satisfying. Molly experimented with her technique until she found a rhythmic movement reliably created the right reaction in Mrs Cosgrove. 

Mrs Cosgrove groaned and spasmed and sighed and Molly continued in her attentions.

“Oh!” Mrs Cosgrove cried out as she reached paroxysm. 

Molly withdrew her hand and wiped it on a towel provided by a smiling Dr Johnson. 

“Thank-you, Mr Hooper,” Mrs Cosgrove said as she fixed her skirts, “You are highly skilled. That was…quite satisfactory. Good day.”

“Thank-you, Mrs Cosgrove.” Molly replied.

“I can show myself out, Dr Johnson,” Mrs Cosgrove said as she waved away his assistance and left, her stern mask once again in place.

Dr Johnson turned to Molly with a board grin on his face, “Well, well, I think you’ve quite surpassed me. I’ve never managed to complete Mrs Cosgrove’s treatment in that time. There’s quite half an hour before the next scheduled patient.”

“I was simply applying all that I had learned from you, Dr Johnson,” Molly replied carefully, “If not for your knowledge and generosity…”

“Oh stop it,” Dr Johnson exclaimed, “I’m delighted, Mr Hooper. You must explain your innovations.”

Molly nodded, “I concentrated my attentions upon the small bundle of flesh within her mound.”

Dr Johnson looked surprised, “That’s it?”

“That’s it,” Molly answered, “I believe the small bundle to be a bundle of nerves. Focusing on that area, I simply found rhythmic massage that she reacted to and persisted with it.”

“I see,” Dr Johnson replied, “I hope you don’t mind if I experiment further with your innovation?”

“Not at all,” Molly smiled.

“Mr Hooper,” Dr Johnson said smiling enthusiastically, “I’d like to offer you a position, at this Clinic. You have rare talent.”

“Thank-you. That’s very generous, but no,” Molly answered, “I still consider myself to be a pathologist.”

Dr Johnson shook his head, “I thought you’d say that but I had to offer. There’s always work for you here if you ever want it, Mr Hooper.”

“Thank-you. I think I shall leave before your next client arrives.”

“As you wish, Mr Hooper.”

“Thank-you.”

Molly stepped back into the London streets, the sun just starting to set on the horizon. Her investigation was at a close. Tomorrow she would need to report to Stamford.


	6. Chapter 6

“Mr Hooper,” Stamford replied as he opened the door to his office, “How is the investigation of hysteria going?”

“I have reached the end,” Molly replied, “I’ve come to share my conclusions.”

“Very good, very good,” Stamford answered, “Well, take a seat. What are your conclusions?”

Molly took a deep breath, “I could find no evidence of pathology associated with hysteria, not of the uterus nor of the nerves. I believe that hysteria is not pathological. In fact, I’ve concluded that the symptoms we call hysteria are in fact the female sexual response.”

“The female sexual response?” Stamford replied shocked.

“Quite so- the symptoms: dampness in underwear, a tension, shortness of breath, nervousness, emotionality are symptoms of female sexual desire. The manual stimulation that Dr Johnson and similar doctors provide allow a release of this sexual tension. The response of women to the stimulation is not unlike the response of men to marital relations. In fact, some of the women I interviewed reported occasionally achieving paroxysm while performing their martial duties. Paroxysm itself is the female equivalent of ejaculation. The physical response is quite similar. Well, apart from the actual ejaculation of seminal fluids, of course. But both may involve flushing, muscle spasms and vocalisations. Both are experienced as a release in tension.”

“I see…” Stamford replied, turning away from Molly to stare out of the window. He continued in this way for several minutes and Molly thought she had made an irredeemable error in telling Stamford the truth. Eventually he spoke, “The accepted medical wisdom is that women do not experience sexual responses like men do. The common wisdom is that sex, for women, when pleasurable is pleasurable in the same way as looking at a beautiful painting, or taking a pleasant stroll. What you are suggesting is radical.”

“Yes,” Molly replied carefully, “I know. Sir, are you familiar with the evolutionary theories of Lamarck and Darwin?”

“Yes, of course,” Stamford replied turning once again to face Molly.

“Including Darwin’s suggestion that man descended from apes?” Molly asked.

Stamford chortled, “Another radical theory. Yes, I have read Decent of Man.”

Molly nodded, “Consider human sexual behaviour as something that may have evolved. Survival and reproduction are the aims, if you will. Is it really so strange that the female of the species has a drive that compels her to mate?”

Stamford snorted, “Then why is it so imperfect? Why is the female response so unsatisfactory in comparison to men in usual marital relations?”

“Evolution doesn’t produce perfection. It produces good enough solutions.” Molly replied, “And…well…” She stopped herself.

“Complete the thought,” Stamford urged her.

“Our society prioritises the needs and desires of men over that of women.” Molly continued, “Women are less satisfied than men in all spheres of life, as the suffrage movement readily proves. Is it really any surprise to find them less satisfied in this sphere as well?”

“I see,” Stamford replied and went back to staring out the window. Several minutes later he spoke again, “And the massage technique of Dr Johnson is the best way to satisfy a woman?”

“Actually,” Molly answered, “I’ve refined his technique. I believe the key is to focus on a bundle of flesh within the woman’s mound, just up from the birth canal. I believe that the bundle is a bundle of nerves.”

“I see…” Stamford replied still starting out the window.

“Well,” he suddenly said, “Your conclusions radical, Mr Hooper. In the circumstances, I am grateful to you for sharing them with me frankly.”

“You are welcome,” Molly replied, relieved that Stamford appreciated her honesty.

“Of course,” Stamford continued, “You know that you can never share this with anyone else. Your career would be over.”

“Yes I know,” Molly answered, “I don’t intend to.”

“Good,” Stamford nodded, “Well, thank-you, Mr Hooper.”

Molly smiled, “I appreciate your support.”

Stamford waved her out.

Molly was relieved that that was over. It was a hard decision, to be frank with Stamford. She was relieved that her honesty had worked out.

She made her way home, shoes clicking on the stone streets. Her discoveries really were quite radical. A shame she couldn’t share them. But Stamford was quite right. It would destroy her career. Professionally, she would put hysteria behind her and focus again on pathology.

But before she could fully do so, there were a few self-discoveries that she had to be honest with herself about. She walked the stairs to her flat and carefully removed her Mr Hooper costume. She washed her face and undid her hair, allowing it to fall freely around her face. Then she removed the last of her clothes and walked into her bedroom naked.   
She lay on the bed and began to gently fondle her mound, stroking the small bundle of nerves and enjoying the exquisite pleasure that it created. She recalled the pleasure she had experienced watching Charlotte expertly stroke John’s erect member and she felt her body respond. She imagined what it would be like to have been in Charlotte’s place and felt a clenching below. Or to have a member inside her rhythmically moving in and out. She used her fingers to simulate the experience. It felt good. The idea felt good.   
She returned to touching her bundle of nerves and thought of Miss Smith. Again, her body responded. She recalled the incredible pleasure of giving Miss Smith satisfaction. Oh, it was good. She imagined Miss Smith pleasuring her in the same way, imagined that her hand belonged to Miss Smith. The idea was delicious. She found the right rhythm and soon experienced a release. 

Molly lay on her bed for a time, simply enjoying the feeling of satisfaction. The chill inspired her to get up and put her dressing gown on. Now clothed, she sat in her favourite chair and considered the evidence. Clearly, she desired both men and women. Although she had the potential to enjoy conventional marital relations, she also had desires that were decidedly sapphic. She turned the conclusion over in her mind carefully noticing her reactions. She was well aware that sapphic love was considered sinful. Did she herself think her desires were a sin? She considered this carefully and concluded that she did not.

Were there any ramifications of this for her? No. She’d given up any hope of romantic love the moment she decided to live in the world as Mr Hooper. Well, that’s that then. At least she knew she could always satisfy herself as needed. Molly yawned, put on her pajamas and climbed back into bed. She closed her eyes and slept soundly until dawn.


	7. Chapter 7

**_Several years later…_**

Dr Hooper strode confidently through the London streets. She was eager to begin work. Today was her first day as a senior pathologist within St Bart’s Mortuary. Her new role thrilled her and she was excited by the opportunities it would open up. She was determined to use her new position to further her research. Approaching St Barts, she headed firstly to her office, intending to ensure that everything there was in order before touring the mortuary and beginning work. As it happened, she was barely in her new office for one minute before Anderson came bursting in.

“Dr Hooper,” Anderson, “I apologise for my intrusion but you really must come. I can’t believe Stamford agreed to this.”

“Good gracious, Anderson!” she laughed, “Whatever is the matter?”

“He is beating corpses. Beating them! He isn’t even on staff at this hospital, he isn’t even a doctor but he says he has Stamford’s permission for his little ‘experiment’ as he calls it,” Anderson replied excitedly, “You must come and see for yourself. It is undignified.”

Molly obediently followed, intrigued. It seemed entirely too bold for someone to walk in off the streets and claim the permission of Stamford. And yet, Stamford had never given permission for someone outside of the hospital to conduct experiments on the corpses before. Who was this mysterious person? A madman? Or a genius?

Anderson led the way and she soon found yourself standing outside the door, peering in, watching a strikingly handsome man who was, indeed, beating a corpse with a riding stick. It was one of the strangest sights Molly had ever seen. The man was breathtakingly handsome, but in a highly unusual way and Molly, for the first time in a long time, felt her breath hitch slightly in attraction. She opened the door and coughed, “Excuse me, sir.”

The man gave the corpse several more hard strikes before he paused and turned towards her. His piercing blue gaze raked over her from top to bottom, taking in her prim expression, her moustache, and her gentleman’s attire. For the first time in a long time Molly felt that jolt of fear, that maybe, just maybe, this person could see beneath the costume and she’d soon be revealed as an imposter. 

However, she was soon sighing internally a sigh of relief as he simply said, ‘You are a pathologist here. A senior pathologist because you’ve been fetched to provide authority. You’d like to know who I am I take it?”

Molly smiled, “Indeed.”

“The name is Sherlock Holmes. I’m a detective. Dr Stamford is most supportive of my work and has given me permission to make use of your facilities in my role supporting Scotland Yard.”

“Scotland Yard?” Molly asked.

“Yes, indeed.” 

“That is reasonable but you understand I will be checking with Stamford myself to be certain.”

“Naturally, by all means,” Sherlock replied, turning away as if he thought the conversation was over.

“But right now,” Molly continued stepping forward to look at the corpse, “I should very much like to know, scientist to scientist, the purpose of your experiment.”

Sherlock turned back with a look of surprised delight, “I am establishing how soon after death bruises form. The experiment will extend over a number days, using a number of corpses, but when I have collected the data it shall be used by myself and Scotland Yard in murder investigations. There is one in particular, at the moment, where this evidence will be the deciding factor.”

“Why, that’s brilliant!” Molly exclaimed, thrilled. 

“You think so?” Sherlock asked a small smile playing about his lips.

“Yes, of course, you are bringing the scientific method to the art of criminal investigations,” Molly continued.

“That is the essence of my work, yes,” Sherlock replied.

“It is ground-breaking,” Molly gasped.

“Yes, I know,” Sherlock answered entirely without false modesty, “However, I have finished for today. Tomorrow I shall return to examine this corpse and to collect yet more data on another.”

“Would you be amenable to me observing your experiment tomorrow?” Molly asked.

“Certainly, if you wish. I shall begin first thing in the morning,” Sherlock replied before darting out of the room in a rush. 

“Well that’s just fine,” Anderson replied, “We are to have private detectives stalking through our corridors now.”

Molly laughed, “He’s a scientist, Anderson. That’s all. I’d better confirm that he has Stamford’s permission though.”

She marched through the corridors to Stamford’s office and knocked politely, entering when she heard him call out.

“Ah, Dr Hooper! What can I do for you today?” Stamford asked.

“I just wanted to confirm that you’d given a Mr Sherlock Holmes permission to make use of space and bodies within the mortuary for his experiments?”

“Yes, yes, indeed I have, did I forget to warn you beforehand? My apologies. That was quite remiss of me.”

“Not at all,” Molly replied, “I just wanted to be certain.”

She turned and went to leave but Stamford called her back, “Dr Hooper?” he asked his eyes twinkling, “What did you think of him?”

“Oh he’s quite brilliant,” Molly gushed honestly, “his work, bringing the scientific method to criminal investigations will change the workings of Scotland Yard forever.”

Stamford chuckled, “I thought you’d find his methods interesting. Here, read this.”

Stamford picked a paper off the desk and pushed it into Molly’s hands.

“What is it?” she asked.

“A monograph on tobacco ash,” Stamford smiled. 

Molly walked out with it intrigued. She put it on her desk and return to her daily duties. At the end of the day she walked home, monograph in hand. She read it through three times in quiet excitement. The monograph was the perfect illustration of how bringing the scientific method to even the dullest aspects of the world could generate true insight. She sat for a moment simply lost in her thoughts, absentmindedly stroking the head of one of several stray cats that she had adopted over the years. 

She recalled the vision of Sherlock Holmes beating corpses, and then of his small smile as she admitted to the brilliance of his methods. Had she met a fellow traveller? Someone she could relate to? Perhaps even someone she could collaborate with? She recalled his unusually handsome features and her heart began to thump and cheeks to blush. Oh, no, she wasn’t falling in love was she? No good could come of that. She’d given up all hope of romance the moment she became Mr Hooper. She mustn’t dwell on such thoughts…

Still, later that night as she brought herself to release the image of Mr Holmes flashed in front of her eyes and she warmed in response. Molly groaned in release and then groaned in humiliation. It seemed she really was falling in love with Sherlock Holmes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You can trust the tags, this isn't going to turn into a Sherlolly fic. Give me a couple of chapters and you'll see where I'm going with this. :)


	8. Chapter 8

When Molly arrived bright and early, ready to observe the experiment of Mr Holmes she found an argument between him and Anderson already in full swing. Their behaviour was unflattering to both of them and Molly was horrified to witness such behaviour from two professional gentleman in such a setting.

“Good gracious!” she exclaimed, “What is happening?”

Anderson answered first, “He cannot use that corpse. Mr Hooper, this corpse may be ideal for his experiment but we do not have the family’s permission. They wish to view the body, for heaven’s sake!”

Sherlock Holmes tutted in disgust, “Ridiculous sentiment! It is just a body.”

“Don’t speak like that of the dead!” Anderson replied angrily.

“Stop!” Molly exclaimed, “We will discuss this in a civilised manner, please.”

Sherlock turned to Molly, “Anderson may be incapable of understanding but I know you appreciate my genius. Please, Mr Hooper.”

Molly sighed, “We cannot conduct experiments on corpses without permission. That’s just the way things are.”

Sherlock glared at her, “Fine.”

“Anderson,” Molly continued turning to Anderson, “Please take this corpse away and find a suitable corpse that we do have permission to use scientifically.”

Anderson nodded, “Fine. But I’d like my objections noted.”

Molly sighed, “They are noted. Thank-you Anderson.”

Sherlock’s lip curled in disgust, “Your objections are not worth anything. You do not have the intellect to comprehend what you are objecting to.”

“Do not have the intellect?” Anderson demanded, “You don’t know me.”

“I know enough. I know that you work long hours and spend your leisure time in gentleman’s clubs because your wife’s attitude to you is one of contempt. I know that this is not the life you aspired to. You are only here working with corpses because you have an unfortunate habit of killing your patients and the dead can’t die twice.”

Anderson shook his head, “Genius you may be but you are also an arse,” and he left the room taking the corpse with him.

Molly sighed, “What was that?”

“Deductions,” Sherlock answered, “I observe patterns that others ignore and from that I can…”

Molly interrupted, “I meant why did you say it? It was unnecessarily cruel.”

Sherlock simply tutted. 

They fell into silence as they waited for Anderson to return with a replacement corpse and Molly contemplated the strange man in front of her. A genius? Certainly. Unusually attractive? Yes. Cruel? Yes. An arse? Yes, most likely. She admired him, deeply. But did she want to know him as a person? She was no longer so sure. She felt unaccountably crushed.

Anderson returned leaving the suitable corpse and Molly watched as Sherlock engaged in his experiment. She piped up with suitable questions as the experiment progressed, asking if Sherlock was controlling for other variables by using the same riding stick, how he attempted to control the force of the blow, on Sherlock’s reasoning for selecting which parts of the body to test. They slipped into affable scientific discussion and Molly found it highly stimulating intellectually. 

As Sherlock completed the experiment, Molly found herself wanting to talk further. To understand Sherlock’s wider body of work in greater depth, perhaps even to understand the man himself better. It occurred to her that collaboration with a medical doctor could benefit Sherlock and she pointed this out, “Mr Holmes, have you considered that collaboration with a medical doctor could enhance your work?”

Sherlock’s reply was non-committal, “While a partner could improve my work, in the absence of the perfect partner I prefer to work alone. I have considered the potential of a medical skill set, yes, however, much of my work is more active and there are other skills and characteristics that are frankly more important.”

Molly nodded, “Yes, of course. But perhaps some collaboration is possible without an actual partnership. Maybe we could adjourn to the local Coffee House and discuss your work further? I’d be glad to understand it better and you could benefit from my free medical opinion.”

Sherlock looked directly into Molly’s eyes and then gazed her up and down before speaking, “Mr Hooper, although I am complimented by your _…interest…_ ” he paused for a moment allowing the word interest to echo through the room before continuing, “in my work, until I find the perfect partner I prefer to work alone.”

“Oh,” Molly gulped a little shocked by the rejection and the implication that her interest went beyond professional, “Of course.”

Had Sherlock observed her attraction? But then did he know she was a woman? 

Sherlock continued, “Mr Hooper, your loneliness and your desire for a _…companion…_ in your work is plain for me to observe. You are unmarried. You have adopted no less than five stray cats, a sure sign of loneliness in any man. To be frank, I observe it in your manners of speech, even in the way you walk. Consider being a little more careful in the future in approaching a potential _…companion…_ in your work. Not everyone is sympathetic.”

Molly’s blood ran cold. Sherlock had turned his deductive powers on her. He had, indeed, observed her physical attraction to him and had also observed her pertinent differences. Fortunately, he had come to the wrong conclusion. But if he observed further he just might come to the right one. He may not be as sympathetic to _that_. She stuttered, “Th-thank-you for the advice, Mr Holmes. Good luck with your experiments,” and hastily retreated out of the room to the safety of her office. 

She couldn’t concentrate fully for the rest of the day but she kept herself as busy as she could. She felt like she was drowning in so many different emotions she couldn’t get her footing. Fortunately, towards the end of the day Stamford sought her out to discuss some professional matters. The matters resolved he delved right into discussing her emotional state.

“Mr Hooper,” Stamford began, “You are unnaturally morose today. Has something happened?”

Molly shook her head and tried to perk up, “No, no I’m quite alright.”

Stamford frowned, “I understand you observed the experiment of Mr Holmes directly today?”

Molly nodded, “Yes, it was quite interesting.”

Stamford continued to frown in thought, “Let me guess. You asked to collaborate and he turned you down?”

“Ah, yes actually. But that’s fine. It is his right.” Molly replied.

“More than that, you got a glimpse of his personality, didn’t you? It isn’t to everyone’s taste,” Stamford continued certain he was onto something.

Molly laughed, “Anderson says he’s an arse.”

Stamford laughed too, “That’s about the sum of it.”

Molly sighed, “How can one person be such a genius and such a…”

“An arse?”

“Yes”

Stamford smiled sympathetically, “I know what’s happening here. I’ve seen it a hundred times. I’ve never seen anyone move through all the stages quite so fast, mind. Still, very common in brilliant young men.”

“What is?” Molly asked.

“You are brilliant, Mr Hooper. You rarely meet people you can really admire. Then you meet someone who’s just possibly more brilliant than you. You can really admire him and you do. Not only that but he has in abundance exactly the kinds of qualities you wish for yourself. A genius. A hero. You are enchanted. But then you get to know him better and he’s actually just a man. With all the same faults as the rest of us, and perhaps quite a bit more to make up for the brilliance and it breaks your damn heart.”

Molly laughed in relief, “And this is common, is it?”

“As common as the cold, Mr Hooper,” Stamford replied, “You need to remember he’s just an ordinary man same as you and to sort out how you are going to deal with all of this. Often a reasonable working relationship can be found. But sometimes the best thing to do is to avoid our heroes altogether. Occasionally, we can get to know them as human beings and really move on.”

Molly smiled, “Thank-you. That’s really very helpful, Stamford.”

Stamford nodded and left Molly to pack up for the day. 

Molly walked home slowly, letting the brisk night air calm and smooth her. She fed her stray cats first, her ‘sure signs of loneliness’ and removed her Mr Hooper costume. She collapsed on her bed, comfortable to be Molly again. 

Stamford’s advice had been such as relief. He was right! He was so right! And to think she’d been worried last night that she was falling in love. It wasn’t love at all- it was hero worship. Hero worship of someone who just happened to also be attractive to her physically. The scientific genius of Sherlock Holmes was enchanting. Utterly enchanting. But she didn’t want to marry it. She wanted to have it, for herself, in her own way. What did his genius have to do with matters of the heart anyway? Sherlock Holmes was incapable of providing any of the things she desired in a romantic partner, if she was able to seek one. His genius and attractive features may get her heart racing, but he wasn’t kind, or patient or interested in her own dreams and genius, was he? Not in the slightest.

One of her cats jumped onto the bed with her and she absent-mindedly stroked her head as she continued to ponder this insight. Stamford had said that this kind of intellectual infatuation with a hero was common in brilliant young men. What if it was common in brilliant young women too? And what if women, believing themselves destined for love and marriage did exactly as Molly had initially done and mistook the feelings for love? It was, after all, a common kind of marriage in certain circles- a brilliant doctor married to a talented nurse, a scientific genius whose equally talented wife devotedly played lab assistant in the background, a talented musician with a wife who could sing lullabies like an angel. What a trap for brilliant women. How lucky Molly was to have avoided it!

The more pertinent question for her to ponder was the deductive powers of Mr Holmes. Clearly, he had observed certain characteristics that others missed. She hadn’t entirely fooled him. Fortunately, he had come to the wrong conclusion, believing Mr Hooper to prefer the company of men. But with further acquaintance and observation, he may realise that Mr Hooper is, in fact, a woman. There’s no guarantee he would be sympathetic to that. She would have to refuse to work with him and to be hostile if she was ever forced to. Stamford would put it down to her not coping well with her own hero worship and Mr Holmes himself would believe it was because he rejected her advances. It pained her that her behaviour would be understood as so childish and unprofessional. She was better than that. But it there was no other solution. She could not work with Sherlock Holmes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think this kind of confusion between hero worship and love really does happen to women, even today and especially to the most brilliant, talented and ambitious women. Hero 'crushes' are real and do feel alot like romantic 'crushes' and because women are so pushed into seeking romantic love as the top priority of life it is easy to get confused. Especially if the hero 'crush' is on a man as compulsory heterosexuality is in play. If the person you are crushing on is a shining example of particular qualities and talents that you've long desired to have yourself pause and question it. The right romantic partner won't necessarily share your talents and ambitions, instead they will have talents and ambitions of their own, and be so supportive of yours. You'll be compatible in the way your relationship works- they'll be kind to you, caring, compatible in the bedroom, compatible in values, compatible in desire for children etc. Being the same in terms of ambition and talent really has nothing to do with relationship happiness. From what we see in BBC Sherlock, it is plausible that this kind of hero crush confusion is what is happening with Molly. She's clearly quite brilliant herself (I wish we knew more about her own dreams and ambitions- I suspect she does some incredible scientific work off screen!) and Sherlock clearly can't offer her what she needs or deserves in a relationship. So why the persistent crush? Anyway- that's my two cents worth! :)


	9. Chapter 9

Molly stuck to her vow to avoid Sherlock Holmes. It tarnished her professional reputation somewhat – it was, after all, quite a childish way to behave– but it also kept her safe from his deductive powers. However, working in St Bart’s Mortuary there was only so much she could do to avoid the man. Their paths still crossed reasonably regularly and she watched his career develop at a distance. She observed Dr John Watson come into his life and instantly take up position as his partner in life and in work. 

She was glad that Sherlock Holmes had found his perfect partner. She suspected that Dr Watson was his perfect partner in all meanings of the word, and was happy for Sherlock Holmes in that too. However, in time, she learned that Dr Watson had taken a wife. From her vantage point, she couldn’t tell if that meant that Mr Holmes was holding back from Dr Watson, with Dr Watson giving up on something more and moving on as best he could, or if Dr Watson had merely married Mrs Watson as a convenient cover. Either way, she didn’t like it and she hoped that Mrs Watson was not deceived in the direction of her husband’s affections. She hoped that Mrs Watson was getting what she wanted out of the marriage.

As the career of Sherlock Holmes blossomed so did that of Dr Hooper. Molly worked hard and soon developed a reputation as one of the leading young pathologists in England. She prided herself on her work and indulged whenever possible in her passion for research. The area she became most passionate about was examining post-mortem the uteri of the various female corpses that came into her care. She carefully catalogued the various morphological differences and pathologies, matching the pathologies to symptoms and histories whenever possible. And this area of research lead to another passion, for every so often she would find a foetus. She soon had a small collection of persevered foetuses in jars and reams of notes on foetal development and pathology. Unfortunately, she found her passion for this area of research was not as enthusiastically shared by her male colleagues. Never the less, she intended to publish her findings to date and to continue her research. Both endeavours required funding, and she would have to do so out of her own income.

She was walking home on a particularly chilly evening, contemplating her financial situation and wondering if it would be wise to do some private practice work on the side to better fund her research endeavours, when she ran into an old friend, ‘Dr Johnson!’ 

‘Dr Hooper!’ Dr Johnson replied, ‘Oh what a delight! What a delight indeed. Do tell me, how is your career progressing? I hear you are London’s leading pathologist.’

Molly smiled widely, ‘It is progressing quite well, Dr Johnson. And your clinic?’

‘Oh it keeps me busy, Dr Hooper,’ Dr Johnson replied, ‘In fact, I think you should visit. There has been a revolutionary development. With the benefits of modern technology, I can reliably induce paroxysm in my patients within five minutes. Faster and more reliable even than your technique, Dr Hooper. What do you say to that? Quite revolutionary, indeed!’

Molly was intrigued, ‘Modern technology? Whatever do you mean?’

‘Oh,’ smiled Dr Johnson, ‘You’ll just have to come and see for yourself, Dr Hooper. In fact, you can try it out for yourself if you like, take on a patient or two. What do you say?’

Molly considered this proposition, ‘Well, I admit I am intrigued. And I was considering taking on some private practice work to help fund my research…’

‘Well!’ Dr Johnson exclaimed, ‘There we are then, it is settled. Come by tomorrow evening, Dr Hooper. You know where to find me.’

‘Very well,’ Molly answered, ‘I will. Thank-you, Dr Johnson.’

And so the following evening, Molly found herself once again making her way to Dr Johnson’s clinic. She was quite curious as to how modern technology was being applied to treat hysteria. Or rather, as she saw it, how modern technology was being used for female sexual fulfilment. She had to admit not all of her curiosity was entirely professional. As she walked into Dr Johnson’s clinic she felt her heart give a nervous flutter. She took in the three women sitting in the waiting room – beautiful, all of them – and her heart fluttered all the more.

‘Ah, Dr Hooper!’ Dr Johnson called out as he showed a patient out of the treatment rooms, ‘Fortunate timing. Come on in.’

As Molly stepped into the treatment room, Dr Johnson smiled at the women in the waiting room, ‘We shall just be a few minutes, ladies. Dr Hooper is going to assist us tonight.’

Closing the door he steered Molly towards the treatment couch and pointed towards small hand-held device, connected by a cord to a box about the size of a suitcase. 

‘Well, Dr Hooper, here it is. Modern technology in all its glory. The Granville’s Hammer. Dr Granville invented the device for relieving muscular pain in young men but, of course, I saw the implications for my work straight away.’ Dr Johnson paused gesturing towards the box, ‘This here is the battery.’ He lifted up the hand-held device, ‘And you click here and…’ A humming sound filled the room, ‘You see? It vibrates. Now all I have to do is apply this end to that small bundle of nerves that you yourself identified, Dr Hooper, and most women achieve paroxysm in five to ten minutes. I can treat twice the number of women and no cramping in my hands at all. Now, what do you say to that?’

‘That…’ Molly swallowed heavily, ‘Is most intriguing…’

‘Ah- but you must see it in action. In fact, you may wield the device, eh?’ Dr Johnson passed the small hand-held device to Molly as he called the first patient in. 

‘Come in now, Miss Taylor,’ Dr Johnson, ‘the dashing young Dr Hooper is going to be applying your treatment today.’

‘Good evening, Miss Taylor,’ Molly answered, smiling.

A light blush spread across Miss Taylor’s English rose complexion as she lay down. She nervously played with the dark curls framing her face as Dr Johnson fussed with the screen. 

‘There we are now, Miss Taylor,’ Dr Johnson said, ‘Make yourself comfortable and ready for the treatment.’

Miss Taylor carefully removed her undergarments from behind the screen and Molly’s mouth went dry. She really was quite delightfully pretty. 

Molly gingerly switched on the device and applied the humming, vibrating contraption directly to the small bundle of nerves within Miss Taylor’s mound. The light blush on Miss Taylor’s cheeks began to deepen and spread down her neck almost immediately. Her breathing began to quicken, and quicken until it was coming in fast gasps. Molly felt herself succumb to arousal. She was careful not to show it, slowly counting her breaths to keep her own breath steady. She’d forgotten how good it felt to knowingly pleasure another woman like this. As Dr Johnson had said, within five minutes or so the Miss Taylor reached release, moaning and crying out her pleasure, her face a satisfying deep red. 

The next two clients found their release with similar speed and pleasure. By the time she’d finished, Molly found herself in desperate need of release too. But that would have to wait. 

‘Well, what do you say, Dr Hooper?’ Dr Johnson asked, ‘I have two treatment rooms and two Granville’s Hammers. Whenever you are available to assist me I can book in twice the number of patients. They are lining up for this treatment, I assure you.’

Molly nodded…I bet they are…out loud she said, ‘I can give you a couple of hours every evening. I’d value to the opportunity to earn some money to support my research.’

‘Of course, Dr Hooper,’ Dr Johnson smiled.

‘There’s just one thing…’ Molly asked, ‘May I take one of the Granville’s Hammers home tonight? I should like to experiment with it, to make sure I’ve truly mastered it.’

‘Of course,’ Dr Johnson waved away the request as if it was nothing, ‘Though I can’t imagine what you’ll be doing with it, Dr Hooper. It is not like it is difficult to operate. Though it does work well for relieving muscular pain. Granville was quite right about that.’

Molly shrugged innocently, ‘Oh you are quite right. It probably isn’t necessary. But you know me, I’m a bit of a perfectionist.’

Once home, Molly stripped down quickly. Ignoring the mewling of her cats she made her way straight to her bed, tossing clothing aside as she did so. Lying naked on the bed, mustache still on her face, she clicked the hand-held device so that it hummed and vibrated and applied the exquisite vibrations to her own wet and painfully aroused mound at long last. She sighed in delight at the sensations. Her mind turned to Miss Taylor and she allowed herself to indulge in thoughts she’d carefully dismissed while treating her in order to maintain her professional facade. Thoughts of pulling down the screen so she could see Miss Taylor fully, thoughts of taking Miss Taylor in a passionate embrace, thoughts of pressing her lips to hers… Molly soon found her own release build and crescendo. She moaned and shook on her bed. 

Yes, the Granville’s Hammer was a glorious example of modern technology. Yes, indeed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, Granville's Hammer was an early vibrator and yes it was invented by Granville to treat muscular pain in men. But it was soon used to treat hysteria.


	10. Chapter 10

It was the very next day when Molly saw her for the first time. Molly was striding into St Barts, Granville’s Hammer in hand so she could return it to Dr Johnson’s Clinic that evening, and there she was. She caught Molly’s eye instantly and her dark almond eyes bore into Molly’s, seemingly seeing past all façade into Molly’s very soul. Her eyes flicked to the Granville’s Hammer and back to meet Molly’s gaze. She smiled knowingly and raised a single dark eyebrow. And that was it. She walked on. But Molly found herself thinking of her again and again throughout the day: of her dark knowing eyes, her expression as she raised a single eyebrow and her comely figure dressed in a modern bicycling outfit. 

Really, this was a stranger! A beautiful stranger, fine. But a stranger all the same. Why was she suddenly so strangely attracted to her? Molly figured it must be the renewed work at Dr Johnson’s clinic and the effects of this work upon her sexual appetite. After all, she could not expect herself to be unaffected by the treatments that she faithfully dispensed to the ladies of London. At least, that’s what she thought until she saw her again. And again. And again. 

She saw her outside St Barts, near Dr Johnson’s clinic, even near her own front door. Almost every day she’d spot her at least once. And every day it was the same. She’d be dressed in a modern bicycling outfit: bloomers, a white blouse and simple but smart hat perched atop dark brown hair pinned into a bun. She’d always be walking in the opposite direction to Molly and as she’d pass she would make eye contact, smile and raise a single dark eyebrow as if she knew. Knew what? Knew everything there was to know about Molly. Her dark eyes were piercing. And then she would simply walk on, to wherever her destination was. Always in the opposite direction to where Molly herself was heading.

What did she want? What was her purpose? Was she following Molly? How else could she pass Molly so frequently on the street whether Molly was at St Barts, or home or at Dr Johnson’s clinic? But why, why would anyone be following her?

After weeks of this, Molly found that the mysterious woman began to haunt her very dreams. She had dark, strange dreams about the woman being some kind of otherworldly creature. Dreams in which she appeared before Molly and then faded away like a ghost. She had strange, happy dreams in which she lived some ordinary moment with the mysterious woman. Dreams in which they had dinner together, or strolled through a park together or in which the mysterious woman poured her a cup of tea. In those dreams it felt as if she’d known the mysterious woman her whole life, as if they were the best of friends with perfect companionship and familiarity. Oh, those dreams awakened a long suppressed longing for female companionship! She’d been so alone for so long. To have a female friend! 

And then there were the other dreams…lustful and wild. Dreams in which the mysterious woman presented at Dr Johnsons clinic for treatment and Molly faithfully dispensed it, the woman’s pale face flushing red as she reached climax and called Molly’s name. Molly woke from those dreams damp with desire and painfully aching with need. How could a stranger affect her so?  
Until finally, after weeks of this bizarre game, the game changed. Molly was making her way from Dr Johnson’s clinic back home late in the evening and the streets were as quiet as London streets were capable of being. And there she was. Again. Striding towards her, already smiling, already raising an eyebrow. But this time she didn’t simply stroll onwards.   
This time she stopped. She laughed. Molly stopped and stared. 

Then the mysterious woman spoke with an irish accent, ‘Perhaps we should speak this time, hey Dr Hooper?’

Molly startled. She’d almost began to think that her mysterious woman was an apparition or something from her imagination. But no, she was real. This wasn’t a dream and she was talking to her.

‘I…er…’ Molly stuttered back, ‘We haven’t been introduced.’

The mysterious woman laughed freely, ‘Are you worried about propriety? After what you’ve been doing these past several hours?’

‘Providing medical treatment?’ Molly spluttered trying to inject a façade of offence into her voice even as her face blushed. 

The mysterious woman laughed again, ‘Right you are, Dr Hooper. There is nothing improper about that.’

But even as she agreed with Molly, there was something about her tone that suggested she knew, just as well as Molly did, what treating hysteria truly involved and what a paroxysm truly was. Molly flushed a deeper shade of red.

The mysterious woman paused, ‘I do not mean to cause you distress nor indeed to suggest I disapprove of your conduct. I represent an organisation, an organisation whose interests fit with your own. We are in need of a favour and are willing to pay quite handsomely for it, I assure you. Payment that you could use to fund your research.’

Molly frowned, ‘An organisation? What kind of organisation? What kind of favour?’

‘No, no, not just yet,’ the mysterious woman replied, ‘you must think about it first, before I share the details. We do not expect that you’ll find our aims or the favour that we ask of you distasteful. In fact, we believe you’ll find it quite consistent with your own values. In short, we work for the betterment of womankind. I’ll approach you again tomorrow night. If you are interested I will tell you the details. If you do not wish to know more than don’t ask and all will be well. If after hearing the details you don’t wish to participate then there will be no hard feelings, so long as you keep our secrets as we shall keep yours.’

‘What secrets?’ Molly asked her blood running cold with the fear of being discovered.

The woman laughed again, ‘Oh, Dr Hooper, I know what kind of man you are and believe me, we could be friends.’

Molly paled. She knew. The mysterious woman and the organisation she worked for knew about her deception. Molly swallowed thickly, ‘At least tell me your name.’

The mysterious woman smiled, ‘Of course. I’m Miss Janine Hawkins. And I really do mean it, we could be such friends. I hope we will be. Until tomorrow night, Dr Hooper. ’

And with that Miss Hawkins strolled on, leaving Molly standing still in shock and quite alone. 

After a moment or two Molly began to recover. She continued on her journey home the cool night air bringing her back to her senses and helping her to think. 

What would she do? Should she hear what this mysterious organisation had to offer or not? Part of her screamed to keep well away. She’d been living a double-life and trusting no one with the truth for so long. It felt unnatural, shocking to know that there were people who knew her secret. 

But, on the other hand she was overwhelmed with curiosity. An organisation working for the betterment of womankind? That could only be an organisation within the suffrage movement. Surely such women would not betray her? Clearly they’d done their research, identifying Molly as someone who would be inclined to offer the assistance they needed. And what if she would, if she only knew what it was? This could be a once in a lifetime opportunity to do something truly meaningful, to pave the way for other woman to live with the freedom she enjoyed, to win herself the ability to live with the freedom she enjoyed openly as a woman. 

Molly wondered why they’d selected her. Perhaps it was her medical training. Maybe they needed someone to provide medical treatments? Or perhaps assistance in enabling other women into the medical profession? She would gladly provide such help. What else could it be?

Molly’s heart sang as she realised that she was going to hear what Miss Hawkins had to say. She had longed for female companionship for so long. Could it be that she could, at long last, have that again? Could Miss Hawkins become her friend? Molly thought of her dreams, the erotic, sensual dreams in which she dutifully pleasured Miss Hawkins as Miss Hawkins groaned and thrashed about in ecstasy, her beautiful face flushed. Could she become something more?

Molly felt a wave of excitement. No, don’t think like that. Molly had long ago resigned herself to giving up romantic attachment. But, what if? What if Miss Hawkins also experienced sapphic desires? Was it possible that Molly could experience a romantic attachment as well as companionship? 

Molly found herself home. As she settled herself back into her home, petting her cats and disrobing to become herself again, she promised herself that she’d be open to the possibility of romance. She’d would be happy, thrilled even if all she found was a friend. But she’d allow herself to be open to the possibility of something more.


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm determined to finish this WIP early this year and I've planned ahead to the very end. I have actually already written the drafts of the next four chapters. So stay tuned for further updates. My sincere apologies for leaving this story languishing for so long.

Molly was distracted all day. Even Anderson noticed. The wait was almost unbearable. Of course, the wait for the big reveal was part of it. What would they be asking of her? What exciting adventures would she be involved in? But the wait to see Miss Hawkins again. Molly had to admit, that was most of it. 

Molly tried to focus on the dissection but as her scalpel cut with practised precision into dead flesh she kept thinking of Miss Hawkins. Beautiful, mysterious Miss Hawkins. Anticipation swooped in her stomach. 

The resolutions that she had made the night before remained unchanged. She was determined to make the most of this opportunity to contribute to the betterment of her sex. And she was determined to get to know Miss Hawkins. 

When Molly had finished her shift at St Barts she went to Dr Johnson's clinic to spend several hours assisting him with his patients. It was more difficult than usual, bringing women to quick release, their faces flushed and pink lips parted in groans. Molly kept imagining Janine's face in the same pleasure drunk expression and her own sex would throb in need. Finally, the queue of ladies had all been treated and the waiting room was empty.

After a quick goodbye to Dr Johnson, Molly left for home. The cold air was bracing and welcome. It steadied her. Her eyes scanned the streets, searching for the one she had been waiting to see.

Sure enough there she was, waiting for her and looking the picture of perfection with her raven hair curled artfully around her face and her body so perfectly outlined by her modern bicycling outfit: Miss Hawkins. 

"Good evening, Dr Hooper" Miss Hawkins said in her Irish lilt. Molly had never realised before just how attractive the Irish accent was. 

Molly swallowed heavily, "Evening, Miss Hawkins"

"Well? What's it to be?" Jeanine asked with a smile.

Molly was momentarily confused. Then she realised with a shock that, of course, Miss Hawkins didn't yet know Molly’s decision. She had to give her an answer.

"Yes," Molly said, clearing her throat, "I will help your organisation however I can."

Janine smiled widely and her whole face lit up, "You'll be wanting to hear the offer first."

"Yes," Molly cleared her throat again, "of course."

Janine laughed. "Follow me, Dr Hooper"

Janine set a fast pace. Molly had to hurry to keep up. She weaved a course through the London streets until they came to an abandoned church. 

"A church?" said Molly as they entered the grounds.

"Desanctified," Janine replied as she led Molly into the building, her voice echoing off the stone walls, "It is a church no longer. And the building has not been put to some other purpose. So it suits as a meeting place."

"Are we going to a meeting?" Molly asked, as they walked up the aisle, past row after row of pews. 

"We don’t have those kinds of meetings. We each meet with whomever we need to only. Tonight, you'll be meeting with the founder and leader," Jeanine answered.

Janine led Molly down to a crypt within the church. A woman was waiting for them, umbrella in one hand and a hat perched on top of her head. 

"Dr Hooper," she smiled, speaking with the tone and bearing of a woman of high birth, "Miss Hawkins was convinced you'd come. I'm so pleased that she was right. I am Lady Carmichael."

"I appreciate the opportunity to improve the conditions of my sex" Molly replied with a smile, "I'm interested in hearing your offer."

Lady Carmichael's head craned to the side, “the conditions of your true sex I take it?"

"Of course," Molly replied, “quite.”

Lady Carmichael smiled again, “I quite understand. The lengths that women must go to. In fact, it is part of what makes you so valuable to us. You see, Dr Hooper, we are at war. Two halves of humanity, men and women, at war. And you, you have successfully infiltrated the enemy camp."

"I've never thought of it that way," Molly answered, pondering the meaning of her words. 

"There is no other way to look at it," Lady Carmichael replied passionately, "a war raging since history began. A war that began when God created Eve and Adam decided that he was her master and superior. A war we are losing. And we must not lose. We must emerge victorious. For our daughters and our daughter's daughters. Tell me, Dr Hooper, did men allow you your medical training, your career? Or did you snatch it from them by stealth?"

"By stealth," Molly answered. 

Lady Carmichael nodded sagely, "men give us nothing. We have justice itself on our side and still they give us nothing. We must seize what is rightfully ours. Take it from them whatever the cost. That is how change comes. Do you understand?"

"I do," Molly replied, “And what exactly is this organisation that you lead? What do you call yourselves?”

"Lead and founded, in fact" Lady Carmichael answered with pride, “And I simply call you all my friends.”

Molly looked to Jeanie who smiled at her. She cleared her throat, "And what exactly would you have me do in this war?" 

"Simple tasks. I’ll make use of your medical and scientific knowledge as well as your position in society as a man, so to speak," Lady Carmichael answered.

"I can't risk exposure," Molly said. 

"That wouldn't be in our interests either," Mrs Ricoletti replied, "We all have secrets. Yours is safe with me. Well, do we have an accord?"

"Yes, I believe we do," Molly smiled, excitement bubbling in her stomach.

"Good," Lady Carmichael said, "you won't regret it. I should like to provide funding for your research. Both as compensation for your valuable time and expertise and because I happen to find your research quite valuable. Of course, you can then cease your work for Dr Johnson, making you more available."

“Agreed,” Molly nodded, “and thank-you. The funding for my research is most appreciated."

"Excellent," Lady Carmichael smiled, "Miss Hawkins will be your point of contact for now. Feel free to address any questions to her. And now I'll take my leave."

“Goodbye, Dr Hooper,” she said as she left her shoes clicking on the stone floor.

Janine smiled at Molly, her dark eyes gleaming, "I'm glad you said yes. Do you have any questions?"

"No. Yes. That is, I would like to talk," Molly replied, anxiety once again swooping in her stomach. 

Janine grinned, "I would like that too," she led Molly back to the main church building, "well, pull up a pew."

They sat side by side on the first pew. 

"It is actually rather a nice place to talk or to sit and think if you are alone," Jeanie said in a conspiratorial whisper, “I often sit here awhile after meeting with Lady Carmichael. Sometimes we meet in another desanctified church, outside London. It is remarkably pretty. A beautiful ruin.”

"It isn't seen as a bad omen?" asked Molly, "Meeting in a desanctified church, I mean?"

Jeanine raised her eyebrows in surprise, "I didn't pick you for being one to worry about such things. In fact, I didn't think you particularly religious."

"I'm not," Molly said shrugging, “but people are."

"True," Janine frowned in thought, “People are, indeed. But the building is desanctified so there is nothing irreligious in putting it to some other purpose."

"I see," Molly said, licking her lips, "are you?"

"Am I what?" Janine replied with a smile.

"Religious?"

"Oh," Janine said, "in a manner I suppose. I don't frequent churches often. Well, apart from this desanctified one. But God and I have our own understanding."

"I see," Molly answered, “And have you known Lady Carmichael long?”

Janine once again frowned in thought, “About a year. I’ve been involved with the suffrage movement for several years now. Lady Carmichael is quite a respected member. That’s where we met. She’s gathering people around her. But, for the most part, hasn’t started introducing us yet. There’ll be a grand master plan, though. She is a visionary.”

“Yes,” Molly replied, “I got that impression.”

A weighty silence seemed to stretch and grow between them as Molly searched for another topic of conversation, "I feel at something of a disadvantage. You know so much about me. And I know next to nothing about you."

Janine laughed, "True! Well fair's fair if we are to be friends. What do you want to know?"

"How do you spend your time?" Molly asked, her heart thumping at the suggestion that they might be friends. 

"Well apart from all this," Janine gestured around them both, "I do some work as a typist to make ends meet. Lady Carmichael suggested that. She’s recommending clerk positions to many of the younger women in the suffrage movement. But, really, my passion is writing."

"What do you write?" Molly asked, her eyes wide.

"Articles, short stories, poetry. I'm actually working on a novel," Janine answered, "The Woman's Signal has published a number of my articles and The Strand has published one of my short stories. Under a nom de plume, of course."

"The Strand," Molly said, "that's where Dr Watson publishes his short stories about his adventures with Mr Holmes."

"That's right," Janine smiled, "are you a fan of his stories?"

Molly grinned, “They are accurate. I have met the original."

"Oh!" Janine said, "of course. In your work at St Barts. What's he like?"

"I admire his methods terribly. He truly is a genius. His personality is a little…” Molly thought carefully, “abrupt.” 

"Just like the stories then," Janine laughed. 

"What's your novel about?" Molly said. 

"Well it's a gothic thriller and" Janine smiled, her dark eyes gleaming, "it's a love story."

Molly felt heat rise to her cheeks. She knows. How does she know?

Janine giggled. "You are too pretty for a man."

"I...Um..." Molly stumbled, her mouth suddenly dry and her heart thumping in her ears.

Janine giggled again. 

Molly cleared her throat, "I would like to read some of your writing sometime."

"I'll bring some next time we meet," Janine said, "I'd like to know more about your research."

"I can show it to you. Next time we meet." Molly said. 

"Well until next time," Janine said, standing, "Dr Hooper."

Molly stood and bowed, "Miss Hawkins."

But Janine's shoes were already making a click clack sound on the stone floor as she walked away into the night.


	12. Chapter 12

Molly told Dr Johnson the very next evening that her time assisting him in his work at his clinic had come to an end. She completed her shift first, trying desperately not to see Janine's face superimposed on every woman she treated. Trying and failing. She had to finish this. It wasn't just that fact that she no longer needed the money for her research or that she needed the extra time to devote to Lady Carmichael’s work. It was no longer right given the feelings she already had for Janine. It was little more than a hope at this stage. But she had to give her all to allowing that hope to grow into something more, into all it could be. 

So as they both finished up the evening shift and waved the last patient out the door, Molly approached Dr Johnson and asked for a moment of his time to talk. Dr Johnson gestured for her to follow him through to his office. Once there, he offered Molly a nightcap which she politely declined. Dr Johnson poured for himself only.

As he poured his drink, Molly explained that she had found funding for her research and needed to devote herself to that. As she had expected, Dr Johnson was disappointed to see her go but he understood.

"Never mind, Dr Hooper," he said, shaking his head and taking a sip of his drink, "I have a premonition that this business isn't going to last much longer anyway."

"What do you mean?" Molly asked, surprised. 

"It is these blasted machines," Dr Johnson said gesturing towards a Granville’s Hammer on the desk in front of him. 

"I thought they had revolutionised treatment?” Molly asked, frowning in confusion, “Made it possible to treat more ladies than ever in a shorter time frame and without risk of injury to yourself?"

Dr Johnson laughed, "At first! But I fear I’m at the beginning of the end of all of that. You see, Lady Addington discovered that she could simply buy the machine, and so, naturally, she did. She dispenses treatments to herself whenever she pleases. The problem is she's telling others. She's already convinced Miss Evans to purchase her own,” Dr Johnson sighed, “We are, both of us, intelligent men, Dr Hooper. It is obvious how it will end. More and more women will purchase their own Granville’s Hammer and the manufacturer will see an opportunity. The machines will be re-designed for home use and women will be advertised to directly. It'll boom for a while longer, of course, but finally this machine will be the end of my practice."

"Oh dear," Molly replied, her face knotted in concern as she looked at the machine, "you could be right. There is a certain logic in ladies buying the machine for themselves. I'm sorry to consider how it will affect you, Dr Johnson."

"Oh, Dr Hooper, it is quite alright. I'm prepared you see. I have time to figure out what I'll do. To find myself another speciality perhaps. Anyway,” Dr Johnson sighed heavily, “enough of my woes. Good luck to you Dr Hooper. I hope we'll be able to remain friends."

"Of course, Dr Johnson, look me up anytime," Molly said with her hand out for Dr Johnson to shake.

Dr Johnson clasped Molly's hand firmly, "I will. Good luck Dr Hooper. Jolly good. Now off with you."

Molly was in a pensive mood as she walked home, thinking of all she had done and achieved so far. More than a little girl had rights to dream of. And yet, a new chapter was opening with fresh opportunities. Molly could hardly wait for it to begin. 

She didn't have to wait long. It was mere days before Miss Hawkins was waiting for her outside St Barts. She really was ridiculously pretty: her brown hair curled around her face, and her dark eyes gleaming with intelligence, her bicycling outfit showing off her figure to perfection. 

"Good evening, Dr Hooper," she called out with her adorable Irish lilt, "are you ready to begin?"

Molly smiled, "I am." 

"We'll be making use of your medical expertise today," Miss Hawkins said, "you may need supplies."

"I have my medical kit on me," Molly gestured to her bag.

Miss Hawkins led her through the streets of London back to the same desanctified church from the previous evening when Molly had met the Lady Carmichael. Inside, Molly and Janine found two women waiting, sitting on the pews. Both were hunched over, one with her hands wrapped in rags.

“I've been instructed by Lady Carmichael that there no names are to be exchanged."

The two women nodded. Obviously they had heard this before. Molly raised her eyebrows, "Why?" 

Miss Hawkins shrugged, "it is how Lady Carmichael likes to run things. With an air of mystery. Sometimes it is for the best of the right hand doesn't know what the left hand is doing."

“She will introduce us in good time,” one of the women said confidently.

"I see," Molly answered, "alright then, well what am I looking at?"

Miss Hawkins gestured to the two women, "both injured in action as it were."

Molly knelt beside the woman with her hands wrapped in rags, "is it your hands?"

The woman nodded, grimacing with pain.

"Let me see?" Molly asked.

The woman unfolded the rags revealing her hands that were bloody and burnt.

“Oh, dear,” Molly said, “Well, first things first. We need to wash your hands."

Miss Hawkins fetched Molly some water. Molly gently washed the woman’s hands, carefully removing any foreign bodies and applying a poultice wrapped with a clean cloth. Fortunately, the burns were mild enough that they would heal. 

 

Molly moved onto the second woman and the first thanked her for the treatment and went home. The second woman had a black eye and several cuts and bruises. Again, Molly cleaned and dressed the wounds. The second woman also thanked her and left, her shoes clacking on the stone floor. 

"The first woman, she was injured setting a post box bomb wasn't she?" Molly asked. 

"I don't know any more than you do," Miss Hawkins answered, "but it seems likely, doesn’t it?" 

Molly nodded, "I wonder what happened to the second? From her injuries it is obvious that she was attacked and beaten. But by whom and why?"

"Husband, I suspect," Miss Hawkins said, “It is usually the husband.”

"Yes,” Molly nodded, what a depressing thought, but quite accurate, “you are probably right.

"I still want to know more about your research," Miss Hawkins said, smiling brightly.

"And I still want to read your writing," Molly replied with a grin. 

Miss Hawkins laughed opening her bag to take out a back issue of The Strand, "A copy of my short story. You can keep it. I have others. It is published under James Hawk."

"Oh!" Molly exclaimed, "thank you!" 

She took the magazine carefully — already it was precious to her —and placed it in her bag. 

"And your research?" asked Miss Hawkins. 

"We could go back to St Barts now, if you like," Molly said, "it is quiet at this time."

"That suits me perfectly," Janine replied, with a warm smile. 

They walked back slowly making idle conversation on the way. Molly showed Janine to her office, her heart hammering in her chest.

"I'm a pathologist,” Molly began, “with proper scientific study, dissections of the human body can play an integral part in moving medical science forward and in helping us to understand and treat disease.”

Janine nodded, enraptured. 

"I'm especially interested in understanding the female body," Molly explained pointing to a specimen jar on her shelf, "this is a healthy uterus of a woman who bore three children."

Janine gazed fascinated. 

"And this is the uterus of a barren woman," Molly continued, "notice the difference in shape and the copious fibrous growths. Interestingly, I have also found these same growths in the uteri of women known to have born children. So, it is not a direct explanation. Perhaps it is the shape here that is the important pathology? Certainly, it is complex."

"Do you collaborate with obstetricians?" Janine asked, curious.

"Oh yes, I have consulted with both obstetricians and midwives. Unfortunately, even from obstetricians and midwives there is less interest in my work than I'd hoped. They don't think there is much to be learned through dissection," Molly replied with a frown.

"Ah now, this is interesting,” Molly continued explaining as she pointed to a specimen jar, “Sometimes I find an embryo or a foetus inside. This one here is particularly interesting because I can date it. She told her mother and sister that she was expecting, you see. And they knew the date of her last menstrual period. So, by applying a modified version of Naegele's rule we can date the pregnancy. This foetus was 11 weeks and 6 days old."

Janine stared at the specimen jar. The foetus was tiny - little more than two inches - with a large bulbous head. Yet, it was recognisably human. It was the most wondrous thing she had ever seen. To think, that such glimpse of the mysterious of human existence were possible!

"This is incredible!" she exclaimed, “How is it that your work isn’t getting more attention?”

Molly smiled widely, utterly delighted by Janine’s reaction. 

"What about decay?" Janine asked, continuing to stare in rapture at the specimen. 

"This specimen was fresh. They know upstairs to alert me when a woman of child bearing she is close to death," Molly paused, "I'm sorry. I know it is distributing."

Janine laughed. 

"It is a little macabre,” Janine meet Molly's gaze with her deep, dark eyes, “But also marvellous. You are marvellous."

Molly felt her face heat and her breathing quicken. Janine stepped closer. 

"Dr Hooper!" Anderson called from the hallway. 

Molly jumped and quickly looked away from Miss Hawkins’s captivating eyes, "Anderson, one moment!" 

Molly cleared her throat slightly as she opened her office door.

"I thought you were gone for the day?" Anderson said.

"I was," Molly replied, "I've just called back in briefly."

Anderson nodded, "I just wanted to tell you, since you are here, that Sherlock is here too. Skulking around, demanding equipment and making his deductions."

"I see, well thank you Anderson. I won't be here much longer," Molly replied.

"Wait! Do you have a woman in there?” Anderson exclaimed, peaking into the room, “Is that entirely proper?" 

Molly regretfully opened the door fully.

"Dr Anderson this is Miss Hawkins. Miss Hawkins, this is Dr Anderson," Molly said. She thought quickly. Molly had learned long ago, in living a life that was fundamentally a deception, that the truth, in some form, is usually the best place to find the right lie. 

"Miss Hawkins is a writer,” Molly said, “She writes articles for The Woman's Signal, amongst other things. She's thinking of writing an article about my research."

Anderson laughed heartily. 

"Oh, you are serious," Anderson said, shocked, "you really think women will be interested in all this?"

Janine raised an eyebrow, "in the results of a scientific investigation into the female body? Yes, I dare say we will work up some interest."

"But the science of it is quite complex,” Anderson countered, looking at Molly as he replied, even though he was countering Janine’s comments, “It is far beyond what the female mind can understand. And the subject matter is, well, not something their delicate feminine sensibilities can cope with.”

"Miss Hawkins is coping just fine. And understanding just fine as well," Molly replied through gritted teeth. 

Anderson snorted, "If your article is published their will be confused ladies fainting all over London, mark my words. Till tomorrow, Dr Hooper."

He left, oblivious to the effects of his words. Molly stood, teeth clenched and hands fisted in rage. 

"Easy now," Janine said, rubbing Molly's back with her hand. The sudden deliciousness of the touch brought Molly back from her anger.

"You forget sometimes, don't you?" Janine said thoughtfully. 

"Forget what?" Molly asked, her mind filled with the joy of Janine's touch. 

"That you live as a sheep amongst wolves. That none of them would want you here if they knew," Janine whispered. 

"Yes," Molly sighed, "I forget. I forget to survive. Then they remind me."

They stood in silence for a beat. Slowly, Janine lowered her hand. 

"That was a good idea though. A story for The Woman's Signal. Mind if I actually do it?" Janine asked. 

"Of course not. I'd be delighted," Molly smiled, still light headed from the physical contact moments before. 

"Well, I should be going home. But thank you for a delightful evening,” Janine grinned, “Best I’ve had in years.”

"Goodbye Miss Hawkins, sleep well," Molly said as Janine took her leave. 

Molly walked home herself soon after, carefully avoiding Sherlock Holmes in the morgue. It was an absolute pleasure to remove her Dr Hooper garb, to let her hair drop freely around her face, to be Molly again, to be a woman again. 

Climbing into bed, her cats curled around her legs, she began to read Miss Hawkins’s story. It was well written. A peculiar little piece obviously inspired by Frankenstein. Janine skilfully used the narrative to raise key questions about life, death and the boundary between. Well, thought Molly, no wonder she wasn't put off by my research. 

Story finished, Molly feel asleep with a smile on her face, and images of dark beauty swimming in her mind.


	13. Chapter 13

The next several months were some of the most joyous of Molly's life. She allowed herself to be lost in the sweet bliss of falling in love. For that's what it was and Molly knew it as such. 

Did Miss Hawkins reciprocate? At times, Molly could swear that she did, that she could feel a connection —a yearning between them — and that it was there from both parties. But she promised herself that it didn't matter. Janine valued their friendship, she had made that very clear. And that would be enough. 

Their friendship developed quickly, amongst instantly. They saw each other almost every day, sometimes briefly, but often spending extensive time together. 

Janine would regularly bring assignments from Lady Carmichael: women who needed Molly’s medical attention, women who needed advice on how to live as a man as Molly did, even requests for latest crime statistics. Molly completed this worked gladly and she relished the time with Janine. 

When there was no work from Lady Carmichael, Molly and Janine usually saw each other anyway. They might walk together through Hyde Park, frequent one of the tea rooms or go cycling in the English countryside. 

Molly told Janine all about her research, her work as a pathologist, and her experiences living as a man. Janine told Molly about her childhood in the Irish countryside and her passion for writing. Molly enthusiastically consumed Janine's poetry, stories and articles, quickly becoming her biggest fan. 

They'd spend long hours discussing the plot and characters in Janine's novel and Janine would finish each discussion by getting out her writing book and scrawling long notes with her fountain pen. 

Janine wrote an article about Molly's research and The Woman's Signal did, indeed, publish it. When Janine showed Molly she threw her arms about her, hugging her in gratitude. 

Molly's favourite moments were the moments when they were alone. They would carefully sneak into Molly or Janine's place together. The sneaking was necessary for propriety's sake because Molly was publicly a man. But together, alone, Molly could remove her costume, put on a simple dress and be herself. 

Molly cherished her memories of the first time that she had been herself —sans costume—with Janine. It had been at Molly's flat. Molly had changed in the bathroom and as she had come out Janine had given her such a look. 

"Oh," Janine said sigh, "you really are terribly pretty."

Molly had felt as if she would explode with happiness then and there. 

And so, Molly and Janine’s lives became intimately interwoven. 

In amongst all of this, Lady Carmichael, began to change how her organisation was run. She began to call her friends to regular meetings. Sometimes at the desantified church within London, but often in a desantified church in the nearby countryside. Lady Carmichael still valued their anonymity, and hence, during meetings there was still no exchange of names and all of the women wore purple gowns and head coverings. 

It was a curious business. At once, there was a terrific sense of comradery, of deep and meaningful friendship in the pursuit of higher goals. Yet, at the same time, they did not know exactly who the other women were.

One exception was Mrs Ricoletti. Lady Carmichael introduced her to the group and Mrs Ricoletti began to play the role of second in command. She had had aspirations to the theatre in her younger days and it showed. Molly suspected that the dramatic costumes, the chanting in Latin, and the gong that was struck before and after every meeting were all her ideas. It amused Molly, all of the drama and window dressing. But it did seem to inspire the other women. The psychology of it made sense, she supposed. Really, it was the same basic principles that had made religion so successful for all of these years. The bells and the smells!

The tone of Lady Carmichael’s speeches also began to change. She began to make vague statements about a reckoning coming. Molly began, for the first time, to have some reservations about Lady Carmichael’s grand vision. What, exactly, was it? 

 

Then one day, Mrs Ricoletti asked Molly to stay behind after a meeting to talk to herself and Lady Carmichael. 

After the last woman had left, her purple gown swaying in the candlelight, Lady Carmichael nodded to Mrs Ricoletti to proceed. 

"Dr Hooper,” she began, “I am dying.” 

Molly stared, stunned. Then her medical training kicked in, “Mrs Ricoletti, are you saying that you have received a diagnosis?”

Mrs Ricoletti nodded, "Consumption. This time next year, I will be dead.”

Lady Carmichael interjected, “Dr Hooper, you will confirm.”

Molly stepped forward and examined Mrs Ricoletti carefully. Finally, she nodded, “The diagnosis is correct. I am very sorry, Mrs Ricoletti.”

Mrs Ricoletti smiled, “Dr Hooper, I want my death to mean something. To serve as a beacon of hope to women everywhere. I wish to rise from the dead as an angel of justice and protection. A spectre to wreak havoc with the cold hearts of men.”

Mrs Ricoletti paused in her speech and laughed for a moment at Molly’s expression. She continued, "I am not speaking figuratively. I mean literally. A real Gothic horror, for women everywhere! Lady Carmichael and I have a plan. I shall need your assistance particularly, Dr Hooper. It is quite essential. Will you do it?"

"I'm not sure what you are asking of me," Molly replied. 

"A ruse, Dr Hooper, a trick, to bring fear into the hearts of men," Lady Carmichael replied, “What if we could have the supernatural on our side?”

“I’ll explain,” Mrs Ricoletti answered, “But before I do the first thing that you must know is that Mr Ricoletti is a demon from hell. A horrid brute! He spends all of our money on whores and opium. He terrorises and beats me. Dr Hooper examine me — feel my arms — can you feel the old breaks? And look," she said lifting her skirts and tugging at her undergarments to reveal skin livid with bruises, “see the proof of his wickedness. And that is not the worst of it. He killed my little Lottie,” her eyes welled with tears, “I thought I was barren, Dr Hooper and then I fell pregnant with Lottie, my little miracle, an angel of a baby she was and he shook her to death. I told the police and was beaten black and blue for my trouble but no one believed me. The death penalty is the proper punishment for murder, Dr Hooper. You know what he deserves as well as I: a hanging. I do not fear my own death, Dr Hooper, for I will be with Lottie again in heaven. But before I go, by God, I will make sure my husband is sent back to hell!”

Molly’s eyes were welling with tears, “I am so sorry, Mrs Ricoletti. I see the justice in your plan, I do honestly, and I will do nothing to stop you. But I cannot be an accomplice either.”  
“Oh, no!” Mrs Ricoletti answered, “I will have my justice. That is certain and I don’t require your help for that. I merely wished for you to understand that it is, indeed, justice. No, Dr Hooper, I want your help to rise again. To become a charm to protect other women and children.”

"What exactly are you wanting to do?” Molly asked, her face contorted in confusion. 

Mrs Ricoletti outlined her plan step by step and Molly questioned every detail until it was perfectly clear in her mind. Finally, she nodded her agreement. 

Later that evening, in the privacy of Janine's flat, Molly explained the plan to her in depth. When she got to the end she asked, "Is it right, Miss Hawkins? What I’ve agreed to do?”

Janine sighed thoughtfully, "It seems to me that Mr Ricoletti is getting his reckoning whether you assist or not. Your assistance can only serve to make it meaningful and to spare the suffering of innocent women and children."

Molly sighed in relief, “Thank-you, Miss Hawkins.”

The next day, while walking to St Barts, Molly was stopped by a young man. No. Not a man, a woman. A woman dressed as man. Molly couldn't say how she knew but she knew with the deep certainty of like meeting like. 

"Dr Johnson, come with me," he, no, she said.

When Molly stayed rooted in place the stranger added, "Yes, as you see. Don't draw attention to it, will you? Come on."

Molly followed in a daze. She followed him all the way to a famous London building.

"No talking," the mysterious stranger said before leading Molly into the Diogenes club. 

Molly followed her, watching bemused as she used sign language to communicate with the servants. Finally, they were led into a room where a single man was sitting alone, drinking tea. The man was corpulent, gargantuan. The most obese person Molly had ever beheld. As he looked at her, his eyes twinkling, Molly became instantly convinced that his intelligence and his personality were just as large as his physical form.

"Ah- thank you," the man said looking Molly over, "not quite as convincing as you, is she?" 

The young woman smiled, delighted, "thank you, sir."

"Though I also spotted you instantly," the man added, with a smile. 

"Very good, sir," the young woman replied, not quite as delighted. 

"Alright leave us," the man said waving his hand. 

"Well," the man began, looking Molly over again, "He really is an idiot, isn't he? Hiding in plain sight, indeed."

"Who?" Molly asked.

"My brother, Sherlock Holmes, the great detective" the man answered chuckling, "You've fooled him.”

"Sherlock Holmes is your brother?" Molly stuttered trying to keep up.

"Yes, quite," the man said with raised eyebrows, "But I didn't call you here to talk about my little brother. I called you here to talk about the war. One half of the human race at war with the other. You must go through with Lady Carmichael’s plan."

“How do you know about that?” Molly demanded.

“That’s the wrong question,” the man replied.

“Alright, why should I go through with Lady Carmichael’s plan?” Molly asked.

"Better,” the man replied with a smile, “because it will work.”

"You aren’t concerned about Mr Ricoletti?"

"There are always casualties in a war," the man said, “and he’s hardly innocent. If our justice system functioned properly he would already be dead.”

Molly's eyes narrowed, "Why would you want us to win this war anyway?"

The man laughed heartily.

"You suspect me of duplicity? That's a reasonable suspicion I suppose," he sighed, "my reasons are simple: because you are right. And we are wrong. Justice must be done. The world must be put right. The case has already been made and the logic is flawless, the ethics impeccable. Yet, men are stubborn. Peaceful logic alone will not bring victory. More must be done. Lady Carmichael’s plan, hatched with the dramatic assistance of one Mrs Ricoletti, is sound." 

"I see..." Molly said.

"Well," the man said, "have I convinced you to play your part in the great scheme?"

"No," Molly replied, "Mrs Ricoletti convinced me. Miss Hawkins convinced me."

The man laughed, "Very good." 

"And if I had not agreed?" Molly asked.

"And nothing," the man said with a twinkle in his eye, "other ways would have been found. Other opportunities. Your secret is safe with me in any case. I’m quite used to keeping secrets."

"Thank you," Molly said with a smile, “I appreciate that.”

"Well, away with you," the man waved her out, “See the plan through to the end, Dr Hooper! See it through!”

Molly began to leave but just as she neared the door she stopped, turned and said, "What is your name, if I may ask?"

The man grinned, "Mycroft Holmes."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Molly (and the other character's) unquestioning agreement with the death penalty as the fitting punishment for murderers is consistent with their historical period and not a reflection of my views. Thanks.


	14. Chapter 14

Mrs Ricoletti, with all the dramatic flair of an aspiring actress, insisted that her wedding anniversary must be the day. While Molly could see the dramatic irony of the date, she was a pragmatist and would have preferred a little more flexibility on Mrs Ricoletti’s part. Her dramatic ambitions certainly put significant pressure on Molly.

Molly's first task in the scheme was to find a body. Not just any body, the body had to be the closest possible match for Mrs Ricoletti. A doppelganger. A twin. Fortunately, Molly was already keeping a close eye on female corpses for her research so she could look for a doppelganger without suspicion. As it happened, the perfect corpse did, indeed, appear and with the perfect dramatic timing. 

Working quickly, Molly claimed the corpse for her research and stowed it away in a lab under lock and key. That done, she sent a telegram to Lady Carmichael with one word: twin.   
Lady Carmichael was quick to act. Under the pretence of collecting hospital laundry for a local laundrette various friends of Lady Carmichael collected the corpse within a bundle of sheets and ferried it off the premises and to the waiting Mrs Ricoletti.

Molly busied herself in her work, imagining the dramatic scene unfolding. Mrs Ricoletti in her wedding dress, screaming like a banshee from the window. White as death. Mouth like a crimson wound. A revolver in each hand. She would shoot into the street. She would ensure that she had the full attention of every witness. Then she would lift one of the revolvers to her mouth, simultaneously the trigger on the other revolver, shooting it into the floor. At the same time, an accomplice hiding within the room away from the eyes of the street, would spray the white curtains with blood. Mrs Ricoletti would fall and every witness would swear that they just saw a suicide. Mrs Ricoletti would walk away alive and the corpse would take her place. 

Molly waited at St Barts until the doppelganger came in. Molly quickly claimed the case for herself. She examined the body carefully. She had been dressed in a perfect copy of Mrs Ricoletti’s own wedding dress. Her dead lips stained with red lipstick. Molly went through the motions of the autopsy, carefully ensuring that she found exactly what she needed to find. She wrote her report with her usual meticulous care and filed it. The police wouldn’t be too interested in the case of Mrs Ricoletti just yet. Right now, it was a cut and dry suicide. 

Mrs Ricoletti was officially dead. But the real Mrs Ricoletti, she was now free to seek her revenge. As Molly prepared Mrs Ricoletti’s autopsy report, she imagined that dramatic scene too. Mrs Ricoletti would travel to the Lime House by cab, using a cab driver who would later identify her. She would still be dressed as a bride. She would confront Mr Ricoletti outside his favourite opium den. She would sing to him a song she sang on their wedding day. She would coax out of him a greeting, ensuring that he positively identified her in front of witnesses. For who could deny that a man knows his own wife? And then she would have her justice. She would shoot him with a shot gun, sending him straight back to hell and winning justice for Lottie.

Molly stayed back late into the evening, waiting for Mrs Ricoletti, the real Mrs Ricoletti, to appear. Mrs Ricoletti’s corpse, the real one, was snuck into St Barts in the same manner that the doppelganger was snuck out: hiding within laundry. Lady Carmichael herself was part of the group of women leading this stage of the operation and she ensured that every detail of the theatre is just so: a smear of blood on Mrs Ricoletti’s finger, the word ‘YOU’ written in large bloody letters on the wall. 

When Lady Carmichael left, when the whole of the play had been performed, Molly felt her stomach heave. She rushed to the wash room and emptied the contents of her stomach into the latrine. Recovering from her spell, she quickly cleaned up and went home. The walk in the cool air helped to settle her nerves. 

As planned, Janine was waiting for her. Molly collapsed into her arms, "is it right, what we have done?"

Janine held her tenderly, "Mrs Ricoletti killed Mr Ricoletti, dear one. As she was always going to do. You only gave her the means to make it meaningful."

Molly shuddered, "I am a doctor. A scientist. I did things today I never thought I’d do."

"You are many things, Dr Hooper," Janine said, "Half of the women in Ricoletti's organisation are married to brutes. They are controlled and beaten and worse. And they cannot leave. They have no means of escape, no way to fight back. You have given them a way of fighting back. They can scare their brutish husbands into treating them as human beings. And do you think this won't have ramifications for women across the country? Think on that."

Molly stood and nodded slowly, her resolve returning, she went to the wash room to remove her costume and returned in a simple dress, "tomorrow will require strength from me as well. I shall have to lie to the police. It'll be Lestrade too. I respect him. That makes it harder. I hope they don't give the case to Mr Holmes."

"Of course they will," Janine answered, "Lestrade always goes to Mr Holmes when he is unsure."

Molly sighed, head in her hands, "You are right. Well, I'll just have to brace myself for that too."

"What's he like in real life? Mr Holmes I mean?" Janine asked, hoping to distract Molly. 

"Not as tall as you'd expect," Molly said with a grin, "but exactly as eccentric and brilliant."

"And Dr Watson?" Janine asked, stroking Molly’s hair. 

"Devoted," Molly said, "utterly devoted to him."

Janine smiled, "I know how he feels."

Molly's stomach erupted in butterflies. Their eyes met and there was a moment, a long glorious moment where it seemed like something might happen. Like Molly could reach across the final piece of space between them. But neither reached and the moment was gone. 

"Well," Janine sighed, "I'd best be going home. You need what sleep you can get tonight."

"Yes, of course," Molly said as she walked Janine to the door and said her goodbyes. Alone, she quickly readied herself for bed. Sleep was elusive, a tangled knot of emotion rolled about inside. But she snatched the moments of sleep that she could.

The next day she rose early, well before dawn, and made the journey to St Barts.

As expected, Lestrade was waiting for her, wanting her input on Mr Ricoletti’s death. 

It was easier than she'd thought, remembering her lines. Responding to the reports and the bloodied writing by promptly chaining Mrs Ricoletti’s body to the table as if she believed that the dead corpse was a real threat. When she ordered Anderson to chain the body, Lestrade’s face turned ashen. Just as Mrs Ricoletti had predicted that fully cemented the full gothic horror as a plausible reality. Molly had given credence to the ridiculous. 

Hours later, the great Sherlock Holmes himself came to examine the corpse. Molly could hear him, stomping around and yelling at Anderson. Of course he wasn't so taken in. He suspected some kind of plot. And Molly remembered her lines for him too. She deliberately delivered them with the venom that Sherlock seemed to expect from her, anything to distract him, to put him off the scent. Because, really, it was all too obvious that someone from St Barts had to be involved in the conspiracy. 

The distraction worked. Instead of coming to the logical conclusion that Molly was involved, the great Sherlock Holmes was soon stomping out of the room like a child. Ever the dramatic. 

But Dr Watson stayed. He noticed the consumption. When Molly attempted to turn her venom on him, instead of stomping off after Mr Holmes, Dr Watson surprised her. 

“I am observant in some ways,” John said, “Just as Holmes is quite blind in others.”

“Really?” Molly replied cynically, although in reality she already knew that to be true.

“Yes, really,” replied John, “Amazing what one has to do to get ahead in a man’s world.”

Molly was cut to the core. He knows. He knows. Why has he never said? How can Molly ensure that he never would?

As John turned to leave Molly called out, “Dr Watson!”

John turned back.

“I’m not the only one hiding in plain sight, as Holmes likes to say,” Molly said, “Your disguise is a woman.”

Dr Watson froze and for a moment an expression of pure terror passed over his face. He recovered with a barking noise, somewhere in between a cough and a laugh. 

“Just as well neither of us know what we are talking about,” Dr Watson replied, turning and following Holmes. 

"What’s he say that for?” asked Anderson, "In fact, what did you say that for?”

"Just banter, Anderson," Molly said.

“But what did you mean?” Anderson replied, face contorted in confusion.

“Back to work,” Molly growled.


	15. Chapter 15

Molly felt restless as the months slipped by. In many ways her life was happier and more complete than it had ever been before. She was deeply satisfied. Yet, there was a strange kind of dissatisfaction within her satisfaction. 

She had money for her research —and yet, for the first time in years her costume irritated her. Her moustache itched and her gentleman's garb felt false and uncomfortable. When her colleagues respected her advice she would immediately think— would they still respect me if they knew? It was a constant aggravation and she sometimes fell into a well of anger within herself. At times, she even found herself lashing out verbally, a behaviour that she found reprehensible and for which she felt ashamed.

Then, there was her work with Lady Carmichael. The aspiration to contribute to the betterment of her sex had become deeply embedded in Molly’s psyche. She could no longer imagine how she had lived her life without giving back in this way. Molly owed that to Lady Carmichael and yet… 

The wrathful bride had captured the imagination of the public, just as Lady Carmichael had said it would. They had taken turns at dressing in the costume, ensuring they were glimpsed for a moment by men in opium dens and brothels. The story had taken root in the English consciousness. There have been five murders attributed to the wrathful bride - all utter brutes of men. Men who would no doubt hang if there was true justice. And yet, when Molly saw the newspaper headlines she felt a sick to her stomach.

Then there was Janine— lovely, adorable Janine. Her presence in Molly's life was an utter blessing. Yet, Molly wanted more. But she didn't know how to go about creating it. And she feared that if she were to try then the whole relationship might just unravel. So, she did nothing. Said nothing. Dissatisfaction within satisfaction. 

In time, Lady Carmichael revealed the next part in her plan. She wanted her friends to terrify her own husband, Sir Eustace. She provided them with proof of his past and present misbehaviour: infidelity, beatings, and the desertion of previous lovers and children. Women had died penniless in whorehouses because of him. Sir Eustace had even deserted Mrs Ricoletti herself in his younger days, ruining her potential career in the theatre and leaving her penniless. This, of course, made the vengeful bride a perfect horror for him. 

Janine and Molly, along with the other women, both played their parts in Lady Carmichael’s theatre once again. Both dressed as the bride. It was an elaborate performance with multiple brides and theatrical tricks. When Molly and Janine sneaked back to Molly's home, tearing off the last of their bridal costumes, they laughed until they were breathless. 

And in the silence that followed the laughing fit Janine smiled, "Can I ask you something?"

"Of, course, anything," Molly replied still giggling.

"Did you enjoy treating the women at Dr Johnson's clinic?" Janine said, her dark eyes filled with something big, something uncertain.

Molly's blood ran cold in fear and she spluttered, "What do you mean?"

Janine looked away, "I'm sorry. That wasn't very fair of me. It's just… you remind me of a friend I had as a girl. Well, a young woman, really. We were very close for a time and sometimes you just... Sometimes I think that there's something similar between us, something similar to what I shared with this friend..." 

Janine sighed, meeting Molly’s gaze, '"Do you know what I mean?"

Molly’s heart thundered in her chest, her breathing rose and fell out of her control. She shook and shivered and gasped. Yet, she remained frozen. Could it be? Could she mean what I think she means? Dare I hope? 

Eventually, Molly managed to splutter, "No, I don't. Please explain it to me."

"Oh," Janine, said her eyes sliding from Molly’s, her slight smile transforming into a frown. 

“Forget I said anything,” Janine said quickly, shaking her head, as she began walking for the door, “Goodnight, Dr Hooper."

No! Wait! Molly's heart screamed. I think I do know what you mean! Let's talk about it more! 

But instead of saying this, instead of saying anything, she stood as still and silent as a statue and watched the woman she loved walk out the door. 

The next day things were as they had always been between them. They could smile and laugh and talk freely once more. Everything was as it had always been. Except Molly had the nagging sense of an opportunity missed. 

She didn't have time to dwell on it fully, however, because when Molly went into St Barts she was shocked to find that Sir Eustace, Lady Carmichael's husband, was cold and dead. Molly performed the autopsy herself. Stabbed. Murdered. And it had all happened last night. Not long after Molly and Janine had left. As Molly prepared the autopsy report she pondered the evidence. It was, at heart, a simple case. There was only one real suspect: Lady Carmichael. 

What had happened? Had Sir Eustace found out about the real nature of the fearsome spectre haunting his existence and confronted Lady Carmichael with this knowledge? Had Lady Carmichael been forced to defend herself in this most brutal way? Or — and in contemplating this Molly felt ill — had this been the ultimate aim of the plan all along? 

Molly ran for the wash room, emptying the contents of her stomach into the latrines. Pleading illness, she left the autopsy report in Anderson’s care. Let him explain the facts of the case to Lestrade. Molly could not face it. 

Instead, Molly strode through the London streets, straight for Janine’s apartment where she knew she would be, writing. 

Janine opened the door and Molly strode in announcing, “We need to move out of Lady Carmichael’s acquaintance.”

When Molly had finished explaining the situation they both agreed that they needed to quietly transition out of Lady Carmichael’s group. It wasn’t entirely clear how the events had unfolded. But, what was clear was that, although Molly and Janine sympathised with the justice that Mrs Ricoletti and Lady Carmichael had sought and won, neither of them wished to be an accomplice to murder. They resolved to attend one last meeting and to tell Lady Carmichael at the end of it that, for them, it would be their last. This resolution was unfortunate. 

Unfortunate because Mr Holmes, Dr Watson and Mrs Watson appeared at that very meeting, striding in just when they were in full drama — a legion of women in purple gowns and head coverings, chanting in Latin. And into this drama, Mr Holmes appeared, striking their own gong to get their attention. He proceeded with his usual dramatic deductions and, unfortunately, he had it right. Mr Holmes knew exactly how Mr Ricoletti and Sir Eustace had been killed and why. In the drama and confusion, Molly found herself speaking to Mr Holmes and she saw a look of recognition pass over his face. 

It wasn't until later that night, lying in bed that it all truly became clear to her. The possibility that Lady Carmichael had acted in self-defence faded from her mind. Lady Carmichael had used them all from the start. While she was a visionary and had, on balance, done some good, she was content to achieve noble ends through terrible means. 

And then the full implications of her current situation hit her. Mr Holmes could reveal Molly’s true identity, striping her if her freedom, her career, her dignity. And why wouldn’t he? He hated her. He believed that she hated him. Worse than this, Mr Holmes could reveal her role in Lady Carmichael's plan which would quickly strip her of everything else. For although Molly had only ever intended to be an accomplice in the creation of a myth that would protect and guard women, she had been manipulated into being the accomplice in two murders. Murders of brutes who should have hung. But the law would not see it that way. What could she do? 

Then it came to her, a perfect idea bubbling up from the stew of worry. She rose early and readied in a hurry, walking quickly through the dark London streets to the building in which, she hoped, lay her salvation: the Diogenes club. 

Molly knew next to nothing about Mr Mycroft Holmes. But he was clearly a man of considerable power and he had wanted Molly to play her role in Lady Carmichael's scheme to the end and play it she had! So he could damn well call his little brother off.

As it turned out, there was no reason to speak to Mr Mycroft Holmes directly. His little brother was waiting for her, his faithful Dr Watson standing by his side.

"How did you know I would come here?" Molly asked, shocked.

"It was a relatively simple deduction," Sherlock replied.

"Mycroft telegrammed him," John interjected.

Sherlock have John am exasperated look but John just smiled.

"Could Dr Hooper and I have a moment alone, Dr Watson?" Sherlock said with a slight tone of annoyance.

John shook his head as he walked down the street, muttering to himself. 

Sherlock smiled at Molly, "Firstly, Dr Hooper, your secret is safe with me."

"Which one?" Molly asked, cautiously.

"All of them," Sherlock replied, with a wide open smile.

"Did Mycroft…" Molly began.

"No," Sherlock interjected, "well, he did say something about you being under his protection. But I wouldn't have come after you anyway. I'm going to leave this particular case for the police who, as you know, are remarkably stupid and hence guaranteed never to solve it. As for your other secret, I'll take that to my grave."

"Thank you," Molly said with a sigh of relief, "I appreciate that. I hope we can have a more amicable relationship now. I only..."

"Refused to work with me because you were afraid I'd figure it out?" Sherlock replied nodding, "Yes, I realise that now. My apologies for my ungracious behaviour."

Molly smiled, "that's quite alright. I want you to know that I won't be associating with Lady Carmichael's group any more. I intend to find other ways to benefit my sex."

"I'm sure you will," Sherlock answered, his gaze wandering to John, "he worked you out, you know? Dr Watson. He said he’s known for some time. He is quite brilliant in his own way. So much smarter than you’d first guess."

Sherlock's face was so soft, so filled with pure longing that Molly found herself saying, "He feels the same way, you know."

Sherlock's gaze flicked back to Molly with a start. His eyes narrowed, "How do you know?"

"It is all there to be seen," Molly replied with a smile.

Sherlock frowned, "You have used my own methods against me."

"Not against you.” Molly said with a grin, “Tell him. Be courageous.”

Sherlock turned back to John. "But the cost..." he whispered, “I could lose him…”

"You have to live, Mr Holmes," Molly said, "To really live your life, no matter the cost. It is worth it."

Sherlock nodded, seemingly coming to some kind of a decision, "Well, Dr Hooper, good day to you. Until we next cross paths."

"Good day, Mr Holmes," Molly replied.

As Sherlock walked down the street towards John, Molly came to a decision of her own. It was still early. There was still time. She had to act while her resolve was strong. 

She strode to Janine's apartment. 

Janine answered Molly's thumping at the door still in her night gown. 

"Heavens!" Janine exclaimed, ushering Molly in, "what is it? Are we to be arrested? Are you going into hiding?"

"No," Molly answered, "no, all of that's fine. Mr Holmes isn't telling anyone. Not about the organisation or my disguise or any of it.”

“Well, thank goodness,” Janine began.

“Forget about that,” Molly interrupted, “I need to tell you that I do understand. I do. What you said about the something between us. The something that’s similar to what you shared with a friend long ago? Janine, dearest Janine... I have fallen in love with you. You are my closest and dearest friend. But my feelings for you are far beyond mere friendship. You awaken desires in me that are...” Molly gulped, “that are Sapphic in nature. Janine, I want to love you and commit to you as a man commits to his wife. I want us to be together, always."

Tears welled in Janine's eyes, "oh my dearest, loveliest, Molly. I want that too. I adore you. From this moment I consider you to be my wife."

Molly stepped forward and whispered, "and I, you, my dearest wife."

Janine pressed her lips to Molly's, softly, tenderly. Molly heard herself groan as Janine's tongue found its way inside Molly's mouth. Janine tasted of nothing Molly had ever tasted before, an indescribable sweetness. It was quickly arousing an insatiable hunger within Molly. Feelings —at once similar to those she had experienced while treating women at Dr Johnson's clinic but also stronger, deeper — flooded Molly’s body. 

Janine pulled back from the kiss and smiled, the prettiest, most beautiful smile that Molly had ever seen. 

Then they both burst into laughter. Janine was wearing Molly's moustache. Molly carefully pulled it off shaking her head and put in on a side table. 

“Maybe I should remove my moustache before we kiss,” Molly laughed.

“I think you need to remove, right now, a lot more than that. Let’s remove the gentleman’s costume," Janine said, her eyes roving over Molly’s body, “I want the woman underneath."

Molly bit her lip to stifle a groan. How was she undone so easily by this woman? Molly obediently slipped her suit jacket off, letting it fall to the ground, pooling about her feet. She got no further in her undressing because Janine captured her mouth in a passionate kiss. 

Molly pressed her body close to Janine, feeling Janine’s curves and the swell of her breasts against herself. 

Janine paused in her kissing, her breathing hard and fast. She gazed into Molly’s eyes, hand caressing Molly’s face, "Dearest, before we go any further, am I right in thinking that you've never been with another? Apart from your work in Dr Johnson’s Clinic, I mean?"

Molly nodded, her face heating, "You are correct. Have you?"

"Just one other,” Janine replied, “The friend I spoke of. A long time ago now. But now and forever more, there’s only you.”

Molly captured Janine’s mouth in kiss, devouring her hungrily, hands wandering over Janine’s body, “Janine, I… I need…”

“I know, love,” Janine gasped, “Me too.”

Janine pulled away from the embrace and led Molly to her bed. Molly’s heart thumped nervously. She began to shake— with excitement or nerves she knew not. 

“You are certain that you are ready, my dearest?” Janine whispered, “I honestly consider you my wife. But if you want to wait…”

“No!” Molly exclaimed, “I don’t want to wait. I need you, I need you now.”

Janine smiled, “Very well.”

She leaned forward and kissed Molly’s lips so gently, so softly. It felt as if they barely touched. Her soft, soft kisses trailed down Molly’s face and over Molly’s neck. 

Janine carefully, one button at a time, unbuttoned Molly’s shirt. With the soft pop of each button coming undone, Molly could feel herself coming undone, Molly could feel the tension in the room, in her own body rise. When the last button was released, Janine gently untucked Molly’s shirt and tugged it off. The shirt fell to the floor, a puddle of white at their feet as Janine kissed Molly again. Janine’s nightgown, soft and delicate, rubbed against Molly’s skin. 

Janine turned her attention next to Molly’s binding. Carefully, and gently she undid the binding, freeing Molly’s breasts. Another puddle of white on the floor as Molly and Janine kissed again, the soft nightgown tenderly caressing Molly’s breasts and nipples, already hardening. 

Janine swallowed heavily as her eyes roved over the milky white flesh. Leaning down she softly kissed Molly's neck, trailing kisses down past Molly's collar bone and across the soft flesh of her breasts. She took one of Molly's nipples in her mouth and gently sucked. 

Molly groaned and sighed as her nipple hardened further under Janine's mouth, “Janine!”

Janine smiled and lowered herself further, to her knees. Gently she undid Molly’s pants, pulling off her pants and her undergarments. Molly lifted first one leg and then the other, allowing Janine to undress her. She was nude. 

Janine stood up fully, surveying the woman before her, perfect and naked, "you are so beautiful," she whispered. 

Molly blushed shyly under Janine's gaze, her sex aching with desire. She reached out to Janine and carefully, with shaking hands, she began to undress Janine. First, she tugged off Janine’s soft nightgown, revealing a simple nightdress in white cotton, with tantalising peaks of dark nipples straining through the fabric. Molly gently ran her hands over Janine’s breasts and was gratified when Janine groaned from her touch. 

She kissed Janine tenderly, before removing the nightdress too, gently tugging it over Janine’s head as Janine obediently assisted by lifting her arms. Molly bent down and carefully removed Janine’s undergarments, until, at last, it was revealed — Janine’s beautiful figure in its full glory— generous breasts with perfect dark nipples, already erect, soft beautiful curves and a tantalising mound of dark, wiry hair. 

Molly was struck dumb. She had never seen a vision so breathtaking in all her life. She felt her mouth water and her sex dampen and throb with need. Janine stood and smiled, allowing Molly to take her fill of looking. 

Then, Janine guided Molly onto the bed, climbing on top of Molly and kissing her mouth hungrily. Molly groaned into Janine’s mouth, desperate with longing. 

Janine, still kissing Molly passionately, slipped off of Molly, so that they were lying side by side. She reached her hand in between Molly's legs and gently caressed her mound. At first with a soft gentle touch of her palm. But when Molly groaned loudly and bucked into Janine’s hand, Janine began to softly push her fingers in between Molly’s folds and explore the damp flesh in gentle, teasing strokes. 

Janine found Molly’s bud and began to focus her attention on that spot. Molly’s breathing came hard and fast and she shuddered into Janine’s body. Molly could feel her climax approaching but Janine stopped. 

"I want to taste you," Janine whispered, “Can I taste you, dearest?”

Molly was shocked. Her mind rapidly tried to process this new and strange delight. She nodded.

“Ah!” Molly felt Janine's tongue push between her folds and caress that sensitive spot with tender licks. The sweet pleasure of it! 

"Oh!" Molly cried out, clutching at the sheets, "Janine!" And, just like that, Molly was climaxing, her body spasming in the bliss of paroxysm, Janine's mouth still tenderly kissing between her legs. 

Molly gasped and sighed on the bed as Janine crawled up to be face to face with her, smiling all the while. 

Molly kissed Janine hard, tasting her own taste in Janine's mouth, and she knew what she had to do. She pushed Janine onto the bed, so that Molly was now on top and she kissed and licked her way down Janine's body, Janine's groans so satisfying to hear. Molly sucked on Janine's nipples. Already erect, they hardened further into tight points of flesh, little pieces of evidence of Janine's desire. 

Milly kissed tenderly down Janine's curves, over her soft and perfect stomach. She paused a moment at Janine's sex, breathing in the musky scent. She pushed her tongue in between Janine's folds, mimicking Janine's own technique as best she could. Janine cried out and grabbed Molly's head, pushing up herself to Molly's tongue. Molly found the little bud of nerves and caressed it gently and persistently with her tongue. Janine groaned and spasmed in her own release.

When Molly was certain that Janine’s climax was finished she crawled back up the bed to lie side by side with Janine. Janine’s face was flushed and she was still breathing heavily. She looked so utterly perfect, so wanton. Molly remembered when she had first seen that look, on the face of Miss Smith, and it seemed so long ago. Could she ever, then, have released that it would all lead to this moment? 

Molly kissed Janine softly on the mouth and Janine deepened it passionately. They held each other, side by side on the bed, in silent tenderness.

Molly felt as though her whole life had fallen into place. She was happy. Purely, blissfully happy. Janine stroked Molly's hair and Molly felt herself doze, her thoughts disconnected and fuzzy. 

Molly's eyes snapped open, "I've got to go to work!" 

Janine giggled as Molly jumped up, rushing about the apartment, becoming the gentleman Dr Hooper again. 

Molly paused before she hurried out the door, "I love you so very much. You have made me the happiest person alive."

Janine grinned, "Just remember that you have a wife to come home to now, Dr Hooper."

"Always."


	16. Epilogue

**Several months later...**

Molly woke with Janine's arms still around her. They had clung to each other all night long. She gazed down at Janine, relaxed in sleep, brown hair cascading around her on the pillow. Molly traced a careful line around Janine's face with her fingertips and leant in to smell Janine's hair. Ah! The sweet smell always relaxed her. Already, it smelt like home. Comfort and sex all at once. 

Molly eased herself out of bed carefully, letting Janine stay asleep. She smiled down at the sleeping Janine as Molly covered her own nudity with her dressing gown. To wake in the arms of someone you love is such a simple thing, Molly reflected, an ordinary thing and yet, so wondrous.

Molly tiptoed through the mess and clutter — boxes of books still to be unpacked, furniture still not in quite the right place. They had unpacked the kitchen yesterday and made the bed. Everything else was in disarray. 

Molly located their kettle and made a teapot of tea for herself, and Janine if she should wake. She took the tea, on a tray, into the living room and perched herself in her favourite chair, clutter all around. She poured herself a cup of tea, sipping at it slowly as she planned their unpacking, moving the furniture about in a mental map in her head.

They had been fortunate to find this place. Their landlady was a widow and a Suffragette. She was supportive of Molly's double life and if she suspected that there was something Sapphic between Molly and Janine then she discretely refrained from asking. The neighbours would be helped along in the reasonable conclusion that the apartment was occupied by three people: Dr Hooper, his spinster sister Miss Hooper and his Suffragette writer wife who eccentrically insisted on being addressed as Ms Hawkins. 

It would do for now, allowing Molly and Janine to live as a married couple and allowing Molly to continue in her work St Barts. Beyond that, the future stretched open and wide for them both. There were so many options and possibilities. 

In amongst the dizzying array of choices there were a few certainties: they were married in reality if not in the legal sense and would live out their lives together. Janine would write. Molly would continue her research. And they find ways to contribute to the betterment of their sex, together. Beyond those few certainties, their future was wide open and waiting to be explored.

Molly felt that the day was fast approaching when it would be time for her to relinquish her costume and to fight for her right to practice medicine as a woman, her right to research as a woman. She was tired of her deception. 

Although it was a change that she was determined to make, and soon, realistically, she didn't think that St Barts would be prepared to accept her as a woman and she knew that it would put her research in jeopardy. There were several women practising medicine in England. But there was still much ground to be broken.

What would Molly do if she was forced to resign? Molly had already made contact with the London School of Medicine for Women. There were opportunities for immediate work there. Or she could open a private practice. If she could progress her research to a point where she could identify new potential treatments and applications then that could be viable. Perhaps, even interesting. 

Fundamentally, though Molly was a pathologist. Although she found the prospect of teaching women medicine or applying some of her research clinically exciting she would, ultimately, want to find her way back to a morgue. Researching the pathology of the human body through autopsy was, after all, her ultimate passion. 

Perhaps Mr Sherlock Holmes and Dr Watson would be able to assist? She knew that they would be willing. Molly's relationship with Mr Holmes and Dr Watson had become quite amicable. In fact, they were quickly becoming dear friends. 

Molly smiled as she remembered the look on Mr Holmes’ face when he had taken Molly aside and thanked her for her advice. 

"Your deductions were correct and I am forever in your debt for spurring me into action," he had said, a slight blush upon his face. 

Then, of course, not a week later Molly and Janine had run into Mr Sherlock Holmes walking through London’s streets. As Molly introduced Janine, and as they made each other's acquaintance Molly could see the deductions, the correct deductions rapidly clicking into place in Sherlock’s mind. As Sherlock came to the correct conclusions he smiled wider and wider. 

Molly was happy for Mr Holmes and Dr Watson. The only aspect of their happiness that could have caused her grief was the plight of Mrs Watson. But there was no need for worry on that score. Mrs Watson was officially dead and unofficially somewhere in Europe. Molly herself had assisted by supplying Mrs Watson with just the right body, another doppelganger and ensuring that the autopsy report aroused no suspicion.

Mrs Watson didn’t share her full story and Molly knew enough not to ask. She understood that there was a connection with Mr Mycroft Holmes, for Molly had once again been summoned to the Diogenes club, but she thought that Mrs Watson’s full story was likely far more complicated than that. She knew that Mrs Watson was also involved in the Suffrage movement. Had she also become involved with Lady Carmichael? Were there other secret societies within London? Molly did not know the particulars. But, certainly, Mrs Watson was more than she had appeared to be and the Watson marriage had been a kind of disguise for both participants. 

Molly slipped to her tea and turned her mind back to her own future. Yes, she would discuss it with Mr Holmes and Dr Watson. They may be able to assist. 

Of course, Molly and Janine were also considering emigrating to one of the colonies in which women had already achieved suffrage: South Australia or New Zealand. Molly favoured New Zealand. The climate would be more familiar. Yet, it was a big decision, to travel to the other end of the world and somewhere so remote. It would be quite a different life to living in London.

Molly put her tea cup down and consciously let go of her musing about their future. The correct path would present itself. Of that Molly was certain. 

Molly tiptoed back into the bedroom. Janine was still asleep —the perfect picture of peaceful repose. Molly smiled to herself.

Yes, the answers would come. They were, after all, only at the beginning of their new life together. And at the beginning of so much more than that too. Change was coming. It would take many years to come to full fruition. Maybe centuries. But Molly could see it in her mind's eye so clearly. A new era was dawning.

An era when female writers, like Janine, would share their stories freely and to acclaim without needing to hide behind male nom de plumes, when female medical practitioners would work in every hospital in the world and female scientists would be commonplace. An era in which a woman did not need to hide in the clothing of a gentleman to find respect but in which each person could dress, express themselves and act according to their own desires without regard for their sex. An era when knowledge of the female body and sexual functioning would be respected and valued. When women would be able to achieve healthy sexual functioning by themselves or with a partner and to control their own reproductive destiny with knowledge, freedom and dignity. Molly could see the research that she had begun in her own lifetime coming to full fruition, her hard won knowledge becoming commonplace knowledge, taught to every blossoming girl. She resolved to, one day, publish her findings on female sexuality. And Molly could see more still: she could see a time when two women could express their love in public by holding hands and could marry, not merely as a private commitment, but as a publicly sanctioned legal truth. 

Molly could see the women that would come, long after Molly and Janine were gone and she knew that they would continue to fight for that future. Molly could feel it in her very bones. Oh, yes, a new era was dawning. A new era was dawning and, by God, Molly Hooper would be part of it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Molly and Janine are considering moving to the ‘colonies’. At this point in history, Australia exists as six partially self-governing British colonies (of which South Australia is one). New Zealand is a fully self-governing British colony. At this point in time, New Zealand and South Australia are the only two places in the world where women have won the right to vote (New Zealand in 1893 and South Australia in 1895). Further, the Aboriginal women in South Australia and the Maori people in New Zealand were included in these ground-breaking voting rights. 
> 
> In 1901 Australia achieved Federation. New Zealand was invited to be a part of Australia at federation but declined in favour of instead moving towards independent nationhood. A woman’s right to vote in federal elections was enshrined in Australian law shortly after Federation in 1902. Unfortunately, the voting rights of Aboriginal Australians was not.


End file.
